


All the Subliminal Things

by WelpThisIsHappening



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-04-06 05:43:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19056373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: Emma Swan does not believe in soulmates.Or so she says. Because if her soulmate did, actually, exist, he should have shown up by now. So, she must be a fluke, a broken cog in a system that really doesn't make much sense anyway. It is, she figures, why she agrees to meet David's friend before Regina and Robin's wedding. This guy doesn't believe in soulmates either.She's intrigued.Until she hears him talk. And everything flips after that.





	1. Chapter 1

“No.”  
  
“Emma, c’mon it’s not--”  
  
“--No.”  
  
“But what about--”  
  
“--Negative.”  
  
“It could be--”  
  
Emma shakes her head, widening her eyes to a size that very likely makes her look as crazy as she feels. The whole thing is ridiculous. And pointless. And not entirely unexpected. In a way that is, actually, entirely expected. “No,” she says again. “Never. No, thank you. Votch. Nee. Nah. Non.”  
  
David almost looks impressed. Good. That took about all the mental faculties she’s got left after a stakeout that lasted far longer than she wanted it to and however long this conversation has gone on. Too long.

Any length of conversation is too long for this conversation.

“Did you say nee at one point?” he asks. “Like the Knights who say similar things?”  
  
“They literally say nee,” Emma sighs, falling back into the corner of the couch and she can just make out Mary Margaret’s laughter from the kitchen. “That’s their whole schtick. And yes, I did, actually. It’s no. In Dutch.”  
  
“Oh my God, how many languages were there?”  
  
“Not at a ton.”  
  
“French too, right?” Mary Margaret asks, moving back into the living room with an impressive amount of food in her hands and it takes David less than a full second to jump up. Emma rolls her eyes.

“And Armenian.”  
  
“When did you learn Armenian?”  
  
“There was an Armenian kid in--” Emma clicks her tongue, tracing back through memories and disappointments and she’s far too tired for any of this. She shouldn’t have agreed to come home with David after work, but she’s fairly certain the only thing she’s got in her fridge is a half-finished carton of milk and she can’t remember when she actually bought a full carton of milk so Emma figures there’s less threat of food poisoning at David and Mary Margaret’s.

Far more convoluted plans, but definitely less food poisoning.

It’s a give or take or something.

“You going to finish that thought or…” David quips, taking an exaggerated bite of the sandwiches Mary Margaret’s made them.

Emma flips him off. Mary Margaret doesn’t try to hide her laugh that time. “I was, like, nine or something,” Emma shrugs. “Somewhere in middle of nowhere Pennsylvania and that girl had just gotten sent back from the last group home she'd been to.”  
  
“It’s a real uplifting story, Em.”  
  
“I really don’t want to flip you off in front of your wife again.”

David grins. “Eat your sandwich.”  
  
Emma does as instructed, chewing thoughtfully and refusing to acknowledge the growing certainty in the back of her mind that David is only biding his time. He’s waiting to strike when she least expects it, catch her off guard so she’ll agree to this whole, ridiculous thing and she’ll probably choke on turkey and swiss cheese in the process and--

“You really don’t want to do it?”  
  
Emma groans. She doesn’t choke. That seems like a victory. She swallows instead, glaring at David with as much venom as her exhausted mind can muster and he doesn’t blink. He looks very sure of himself.

“I’m going to get Google Translate on my phone,” Emma warns. “Then we’ll both be driven insane by this and Mary Margaret will probably have to spoon feed us or something.”  
  
Mary Margaret shakes her head. “I’m not doing that.”  
  
“See! This plan is actually so insane that even picture perfect true love Mary Margaret doesn’t want to go along with it!”  
  
“Oh, I didn’t say that,” Mary Margaret objects, and Emma is going to do permanent damage to her spine if she slumps any lower. “I just knew you would say no. David is incredibly stubborn, that’s all.”  
  
“Bullheaded,” Emma amends.

David rolls his entire head in response, a sigh that only sounds a little melodramatic when he’s trying to set Emma up with one of his friends from college. For a wedding. That involves Mary Margaret’s step sister. And one of David’s other friends from college. The whole thing is a twisted web or _ridiculous_ that Emma is certain she’ll only be able to understand with some kind of chart, but it’s ended, somehow, with her also getting an invitation.

And a plus one. That she hasn’t filled. Neither, apparently, has this guy. Emma doesn’t know what his name is yet.

“That’s incredibly unfair,” David says, waving both hands through the air and it’s only a little absurd when he’s still holding half a sandwich. “I’m simply looking out for you. And him. Collectively. And individually.”  
  
“That was convoluted.”  
  
“Only because you’re tired.”

Emma flips him off. Mary Margaret’s laugh turns into some kind of cackle.

“What is this guy’s deal?” Emma asks, well aware of how whiny her voice sounds. But she still can’t shake that feeling in the back of her mind and David and Mary Margaret have a habit of...this.

Because it’s not just a set-up. That’s not the world they live in. Once upon a time, maybe it could have been when people didn’t realize that soulmates were out there and modern science hadn’t conducted enough experiments to realize that they were also exceedingly rare. Maybe it could have just been a meeting through mutual friends, a flash of smiles and shared interests and…

No.

That’s not the world. Now, the world is a desperate attempt to find _the one_ in a bold and underlined kind of way. Soulmates might be rare, but they’re the pinnacle – the goal of everyone from the time they have their first moment. That’s what they call it. _The moment._ Emma thinks it’s the least creative thing she’s ever heard.

And her’s came when she was sixteen and living in Minnesota, recently returned from the house of a woman who claimed she was going to adopt her, only to turn out to be some kind of actual psychopath who believed _they_ were soulmates. The thought of it still sends a chill down Emma’s spine, partially because she doesn’t like thinking about Ingrid much and partially because of what happened after Ingrid.

It had been fleeting, the whole scene playing out in front of her eyes so quickly sometimes Emma wonders if she just dreamt it. There was a hallway, dim lighting and fingers laced through hers, an arm heavy around her waist and she distinctly remembers she couldn’t feel anything else, no hand pressed against her back or anything to pull her closer. There were words though, a quiet whisper pressed into the curve of her neck and that one very specific spot behind her ear, _it’s you Emma_ , and sometimes, when things go to absolute shit and she comes home to absolutely expired milk, Emma likes to think of it.

That she could be something. For someone.

And that’s not always how it works. It isn’t always a vision. Sometimes it’s a feeling. Or face in a crowd. Sometimes it’s immediate. Or the sudden desire to be anywhere except where you are because anywhere is maybe where your soulmate is standing.

It’s unpredictable and uncontrollable and Mary Margaret and David turned around when they were nineteen years old and knew. Mary Margaret was running late for class. David was early to meet a girl his parents thought he’d get along with.

And that, as they say, was that.

The problem with all of it, of course, is finding them. Emma’s never actually looked for her soulmate and part of her knows it’s cowardice, but part of her thought it could have been Neal and that blew up in her face and, honestly, fuck it.

Her soulmate can find her if he wants to.

She’s also never mentioned that she has one. To anyone. Ever.

So, the cowardly thing is pretty on point.

“Killian does not have a deal,” Davids says, jerking Emma back to reality and Mary Margaret makes a contradictory noise in the back of her throat.

Emma blinks. “What was that?”  
  
“He kind of has a deal,” Mary Margaret mutters. “Like just...a tiny deal. Real small.”  
  
“That so? How small?”  
  
“Minuscule, honestly.”  
  
“And his name is Killian? Straight up.”  
  
David groans, eating the rest of his sandwich so he can put his hand to much better use and run it over his face. “Maybe don’t open with that.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter what I open with, I’m not going to this wedding with him,” Emma argues. She levels David with another look when he hums noncommittally. The feeling keeps growing. Like it’s taking over her brain. She needs to sleep. “Ok,” she sighs. “What is his deal, minuscule or otherwise? Is he, like, desperately seeking soulmate?”  
  
Mary Margaret freezes. David grits his teeth.

“Oh my God, that’s it, isn’t it?” Emma shouts, jumping off the couch and none of her muscles were prepared for that. “Are you guys kidding me? I am not doing this. Some creep guy who who only believes a relationship can exist with a soulmate is just--”  
  
“--That’s not what’s happening here,” David interrupts sharply.

“No?”  
  
“No. This is...ok, full disclosure, Killian doesn’t believe in soulmates. Like at all.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Neither do you, Emma,” Mary Margaret points out lightly, and she supposes that fair. A coward and a great, big giant liar. It’s not a great combination.

Emma nods slowly, breathing through her mouth. “Right, right. Why?”  
  
“Why don’t you believe in soulmates?”  
  
“Why doesn’t David’s frat brother believe in soulmates?”  
  
“Ok, we were never in a frat,” David grumbles. “Jones--”  
  
“--That’s his last name,” Mary Margaret explains when Emma’s brows lower in confusion.  
  
“He’s been through some shit. In the last few months. And years, honestly. It’s...well, that’s not my story, but that’s part of the reason why he’s moving here. Fresh starts and opening the bar with Locksley and all that. But, yeah, he’s coming here and Regina gave him the plus one too, which was…”  
  
“Not the best,” Mary Margaret supplies, and Emma is close to bursting with questions. She bites her tongue.

David nods. “Exactly that. Anyway, I just think you guys could get along and there’s no soulmate potential here, I swear. Just...a drinking buddy after Regina makes us all pose for pictures.”  
  
“I’m not in the wedding party,” Emma points out.

“Yes, but now you’ve got something to look forward to. Jones will totally be down to guess how much everything costs too. He despises elitism.”  
  
“How much do you think he paid for his tux?”  
  
“That’s a question you can ask him when you meet him for coffee. Tomorrow.”  
  
Emma throws a sandwich at him. She doesn’t really think about it before she does it – or the far more mature option of the several decorative pillows on the couch behind her – but the whole thing is purely emotional and decidedly instinctual and she’s gotten, like, six hours of sleep in the last four days.

“Are you kidding me, David?”  
  
“Are you?” he challenges, pulling a piece of bread off his jaw. “How old are you?”  
  
“Old enough that you can't control my schedule! You are not my mother!”  
  
“I’m not trying to be.”  
  
“No?” Emma shouts, and she’s half a second away from stomping her foot too. She’s going to have to apologize to Mary Margaret. That other slice of bread landed mayo-side down on the floor. “Did he agree to this?”  
  
David opens his mouth, but Mary Margaret answers quicker, a sharp head shake and “he kicked him when he came up with the idea a couple days ago.”  
  
In the grand scheme of everything, Emma isn’t sure why _that_ is what makes the difference. It’s not really much of a difference anyway – she’s still certain this an absolutely terrible, God awful idea, but she’s admittedly a little intrigued and being curious has always been a defining characteristic and she can just leave if it’s bad. She’s rationalized the whole thing. David is staring at her.

And the feeling is still there, a quiet something that might actually be hope lingering in the pit of her stomach. It’s weird. Warm. Weird and warm.

“You think he’ll show?” Emma asks, and David shrugs.

“Only one way to find out, right?”

* * *

Emma does not do well with the unpredictable. She likes plans and structure and a childhood of being bounced around the foster system has left her with the absolute certainty that nothing is going to work out unless she works for it.

She’s not into spontaneity. It freaks her out.

So it only makes sense that she’s slightly to moderately frustrated when she walks into the coffee shop a few blocks away from her apartment to find it decidedly empty of anyone except a few mid-afternoon workers and one old man reading the newspaper.

“Damn,” Emma mutters, shoulders slumping. She’s going to kill David. Or kick him. No, no kicking. That’s too...whatever.

She bobs on the balls of her feet, awkwardly standing just inside the door and it only takes a few moments of internal debate to decide _fuck it_ and she orders a large coffee. It draws a few curious stares from the previously observed workers and Emma takes some perverse pleasure in whatever their eyes do when she spends at least four seconds pouring cinnamon into the cup.

So, at last check, she’s cowardly and a great, big giant liar and kind of petulant. What a catch.

And she’s only going to stay as long it takes to finish her drink and scroll through her Twitter feed, slumped in another piece of furniture that isn’t hers, but the world is apparently a messed up, vaguely magical place and, at first, Emma is certain it’s the caffeine.

Like it’s making her heart beat too quickly, pulse thudding in her ears and mouth going dry because her tongue might honestly be growing. That’s so gross.

She usually drinks hot chocolate anyway and chocolate has caffeine, but not like coffee and the door slams shuts behind him. It takes him, exactly, four steps to cross the shop, walking right up to the register with an easy sense of confidence that almost makes the leather jacket he’s wearing acceptable and Emma doesn’t blink.

She’s forgotten how.

He looks like David said he would – dark hair that curls slightly behind his ear and David didn’t mention that part. Emma figures he didn’t notice. That’s fair. She’s far too busy noticing it anyway. He flashes a smile when he’s done with his order, a quirk of his eyebrows that might be flirting and the girl behind the counter giggles.

Honestly.

Emma barely hears it. She’s too busy possibly dying. She can’t remember when she took a deep breath last, a mixture of words she’s spent half a lifetime trying to remember perfectly and forget entirely and a single coffee order. He ordered a cappuccino. With extra foam.

That might have been why the girl laughed. It’s a ridiculous coffee order. And the voice is exactly the same.

_Her voice._

“Holy fu--” Emma breathes, gripping her coffee cup tight enough the lid snaps off and that’s what draws his attention. Figures.

He pauses, eyes moving from her face down to her stretched out leg and there is coffee on her hand. His mouth opens, only to close again, one eyebrow arching in a way that, honestly, is kind of offensive and clearly judgmental and--

“Were you trying to run away?”  
  
That’s not what Emma expects him to ask. She shakes her head, disbelief in every shift of her hair, and that eyebrow is defying gravity. “Were you expecting me to run away? Also, you’re incredibly late, you know that?”  
  
“Like five minutes. Where did you park?”  
  
“I live a couple blocks away from here.”  
  
Killian hums and Emma can just make out the tip of his tongue between his teeth. That’s worse than the eyebrow thing. Way worse. “Ah, that’s why David planned it here. I think that means he’s picking you as the favorite.”  
  
“Or he just thinks you’ll be able to find parking easier than you’re claiming.”  
  
“Are you questioning the parking thing, Swan?” Killian asks, and oh. _Oh_. Last names. That’s fine. Emma is fine with that. She didn’t expect him to call her by her first name. That would have been insane.

 _Soulmates are so goddamn stupid_.

Emma shrugs. “I mean...it does kind of sound like an excuse.”  
  
“But I’m here,” he argues. “Clearly I’m piqued.”  
  
“In a British sort of way?”  
  
“That’s pronounced differently. In a my curiosity is sort of way.”  
  
“Ah,” she says. “it’s a science experiment then?”  
  
They call his name at the counter – extra foam and all, and Killian’s head snaps between Emma and the giggling girl and back to Emma again. He licks his lips. “That’s a very cynical approach, don’t you think?”

“You tell me.”  
  
It’s not a very good first impression. It’s a kind of mean first impression, honestly, but Emma can’t get a read on him _at all_ and if Killian Jones is her soulmate he should be reacting less…less. There should be fireworks or something.  
  
Metaphorically.  
  
Mary Margaret always mentioned metaphorical fireworks.

“Maybe,” Killian says, and it sounds a bit like an admission. “I just--” They call his name again, one hand fisting at his side and Emma knows her eyes widen a bit. Only one hand. “Hold that thought,” he mutters, and she tries to keep her breathing level.

Emma breathes like an actual human for a full twelve seconds.

“Ok,” Killian continues, dropping onto the edge of a table covered with magazines that are several months out of date. “Why’d you show, then?”  
  
“Wow, straight to the interrogation, huh? Why’d you show?”  
  
“I asked you first.”  
  
“I threw a sandwich at David’s face.”  
  
He barks out a laugh and it’s like everything and then some and Emma forgets her coffee cup doesn’t have a top on it anymore. She nearly spills it all over herself. Killian’s hand darts forward quickly, the hint of a smile lingering at the corner of his lips when his fingers wrap around her wrist. “You’re going to burn yourself,” he mumbles, tugging the cup out of her hand and there are napkins on the table.

She has no idea where they came from.

She refuses to take that as some kind of sign.

The whole thing doesn’t last very long. There are bunched up napkins and then slightly damp napkins and Killian’s eyes dart up towards Emma more than once, neither one of them saying anything because it kind of feels like the air is made of actual electricity.

Emma swallows. “Thanks.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” he stammers, which is also probably not a sign. He doesn’t believe in soulmates. She doesn’t want a soulmate.

David wants them to go to a wedding together.

“Why did you bring up the sandwich thing?” Killian asks. “In context, it just…”  
  
“Ok, it makes sense. I’m trying to make you aware of how much I did not want to do this.”

Cowardly and a great, big giant liar, kind of petulant and just sort of a jerk. Killian’s eyebrows fly, eyes distractingly blue when he meets Emma’s gaze straight on. That version of the laugh is a bit more skeptical and maybe his own brand of frustration and that’s also fair.

“And,” Emma adds, leaning forward unconsciously. Totally. “I heard you kicked him. So. Grand scheme or whatever.”  
  
“Whatever. Who told you I kicked him?”  
  
“Mary Margaret.”  
  
“Can’t keep a secret to save her life,” Killian laughs, and neither one of them have tried to move out of each other’s space. It should probably be more disconcerting. “That still doesn’t explain why you are here, Swan.”  
  
Emma clicks her teeth, twisting her lips so she has something to focus on other than the color of Killian’s eyes. That can’t be normal. “David seemed to think it was a good idea. And I’m...interested.”  
  
“In me?”

“Oh, don’t say it like that. It’s not like that.”  
  
It is, in fact, exactly like that, but Emma’s starting to suspect several things of varying degrees of disappointment so she doesn’t say that.

Killian grins, the movement slinking across his face like that’s even possible, settling into something closer to a smirk and Emma briefly wonders what it would be like to get her fingers in his hair. She’s fairly positive that’s where her hands were in the moment.

That’s a dangerous line of thought.

“What are you interested in, then?”

Emma jerks back. Her spine hates her. “Why you don’t think soulmates exist.”  
  
The silence that follows is overpowering. It’s heavy and never-ending and Emma isn’t breathing again. Her lungs hate her too.

Killian’s gaze shifts, lingering over her shoulder and straight out the window, like he’s staring at something only he can see and Emma regrets the words already. She should have come up with a better plan.

She’s so bad at in the moment.

And she hadn’t noticed the colors on his arm before, only clear when his jacket sleeve shifts slightly and she’s certain she’ll regret these words too. She says them anyway.

“Who’s Milah?”  
  
His whole body goes tense, jaw clenching and a muscle in his temple jumping. Emma’s coffee is lukewarm when reaches forward and takes a sip.

“Someone from before,” he says, a finality in his voice that begs more questions and refuses to answer any of them. “That’s why you’re here? To question the soulmate thing?”  
  
“No!”  
  
“No?”  
  
“Maybe,” Emma amends, Killian’s lips twitching. “I just...ok, I’m not big on it either. I think it’s kind of stupid, you know?”  
  
“Stupid.”  
  
“I’m going to leave if you just keep repeating me.”

He makes a face – not quite a full blown smile, but not a glare either and his eyes definitely flicker towards her lips when Emma takes another drink. “Let’s avoid that then, shall we? So, you’re not big on soulmates because...what? You think it’s forced love? That’s not how it works.”  
  
“The likelihood of people staying in a relationship when they’re not soulmates is slim.”  
  
“Still. It happens. Soulmates are just a guaranteed success rate. Ruining the careers of divorce lawyers everywhere.”

“It’s stupid,” Emma says again, well aware that she’s repeating herself now and that smirk is going to be a problem. “And people are obsessed with it and, you know it’s--”  
  
“--Did you think you had a soulmate once?”

She’s got to stop feeling like her tongue is expanding in her mouth. That’s not romantic at all. This is not romantic.

This is a disaster.

“Of course not,” she snaps. “Why--why would you say that?”  
  
“For someone who’s never had a soulmate, you seem to have a lot of opinions on them.”  
  
“And you don’t? David was very certain you don’t believe in them.”  
  
“Anymore.”  
  
Something, something, a light bulb goes off. “Oh,” Emma breathes, eyes darting back to his forearm and the prosthetic hand. “So, uh...Milah. Not just someone from before, huh? A very big, very important someone?”  
  
“I’m not having this conversation with you.”  
  
He doesn’t shout it and that’s ten-thousand times worse. Emma wishes he did. She wishes he’d stood up and knocked over the coffee table and did something drastic to the ostentatious espresso machine behind the counter. He doesn’t. He stares at her, intent and almost demanding and she can feel the flush rise in her cheeks.

“Yeah, ok,” she mumbles.

Killian sighs. “That was kind of a dick move, right?”  
  
“A little, but I don’t really know you.”  
  
“I don’t really know you.”  
  
“So...curiosity still piqued?”  
  
“Yeah, a bit,” he nods. “How often, on average, do you think David and Mary Margaret try and set you up on the idea that this could be the one?”  
  
“I don’t know that I’ve ever done the math, but since I got here--” Emma shrugs, twisting a piece of hair around her fingers and she doesn’t think she imagines the way Killian’s gaze lightens at that. “Somewhere in the high double digits at least.”  
  
“How long have you been here? You’re David’s partner, right?”  
  
“Yes to the second and, uh...like two years?”  
  
“And they’re averaging high double digits already?” Killian whistles. “That’s impressive, even for them.”

“You’re not doing a lot to make me all that confident about how the rest of forever is going to go.”

He chuckles, hand wrapping around the back of his neck. “True, but there might be a light at the end of this tunnel and I think David has gift wrapped it for us.”  
  
“That didn’t make any sense at all.”

“I’m getting there. There’s a flow to these kind of stories, Swan.”  
  
“And if you’re not careful you will bore your audience.”  
  
Emma wonders if she’d be able to shave his eyebrows off without him noticing. Probably not. “David thinks we should go to this wedding together,” Killian says. “The word kindred spirits and actual spirits were used several times.”  
  
“That’s because he thinks he’s way funnier than he is. Where are you going with this? You actually want to go to this wedding together? Like...like together?”  
  
It’s not the most _high school_ thing Emma has ever said, but she didn’t have a normal high school experience so maybe her perception is just skewed. Killian is still smiling at her.

“I think if we agree with this for one night we’ll at least have a few weeks of breathing room. And maybe have some fun, but weddings are already a disaster with all the soulmate shit. People asking if you’re with them or finding them or looking for them at the reception. This covers all our bases.”  
  
“You’re cliché obsessed.”  
  
“That’s not an answer.”  
  
“Was there a question?”

“Yes,” Killian says, reaching out to rest his hand on Emma’s knee. Her brain short circuits. She does not know enough about electricity to keep making puns like this. “I am asking you to go to to this wedding, as each other’s plus ones. We act it all out. We’re together and good and very, very happy and I don’t feel like I spent way too much on that tuxedo.”  
  
“How much do you think you spent?”  
  
“Too much.” Emma rolls her eyes. “We ignore the absurdities of modern wedding culture, we get our friends and inquisitive strangers to leave us alone because our friends will know we’re just there for fun and strangers will assume whatever they want.”  
  
Emma’s stomach flies into her throat. It’s probably a good thing her tongue expanded that much. “Wait, wait, backtrack, you want people to believe that we’re each other’s soulmates? Is that a joke? Are you joking right now?”  
  
The tips of Killian’s ears go red, fingers finding the hair at the nape of his neck. “I mean...not entirely.”  
  
“That sounds like a yes.”  
  
“That’s how it was intended, yeah.”  
  
Emma’s brain can not keep up with any of this. There are too many cylinders and an influx of feelings and none of it makes any sense.

This moment sucks. Completely. And totally.

“Thoughts?” Killian prompts, wincing when Emma gapes at him. “Those don’t look like good thoughts really.”  
  
“You don’t get to make comments on my thoughts, Jones!”  
  
He smirks. She hates him. That doesn’t seem in line with the soulmate thing.

“Ok, ok,” he backtracks. “I’m not saying we have to tell anyone that we’re soulmates. Just that...if people assume, it might not be the worst thing in the world.”  
  
“You have a lot of people coming up to you and demanding to meet your soulmate? That confident in your ability to soulmate, huh?”  
  
“I’ve never heard it used as a verb before.” Emma scowls, drawing a laugh out of him and she’s probably not cataloguing each shift in sound for her own personal, mind records. Only a crazy person would do that.

Emma is not crazy.

“It’s impressive,” Killian continues. “Your obvious command of the English language. But let me ask you something, Swan. Have you ever been to a soulmate wedding before?”  
  
She shakes her head. Strictly speaking, she’s never been to a wedding, but that’s a wholly depressing fact and not going to do her any kind of first-impression favors and she’s heard the rumors. Soulmate weddings are epic and extraordinary and another adjective that probably starts with the letter ‘e’ and even Mary Margaret can’t come up with anything good to say about her step-mother’s propensity towards extreme.

That’s another ‘e’ adjective.

“No,” Emma says, short and concise.

“It’s a lot. Tradition and commitment and, yes, people will think that they can ask you about your own status because everyone’s so hopped up on love that they lose any sense of tact.”  
  
“That reeks of bitterness.”  
  
“I’m a little bitter that’s why.”

Emma scoffs, but it’s almost a laugh. “Yeah, I get that. Ok, so...we don’t actually tell anyone that we’re soulmates, just agree if they ask?” Killian nods. “And this is...no strings attached, really. We’re just going to make David happy and ignore any other potential setups and this is a convenience. For both of us.”  
  
“Exactly. It could even be fun to not drink alone. Cora Mills loves her open bars.”

“Wow,” Emma mutters. “That’s high praise.”  
  
“What’s your drink of choice, Swan?”  
  
“Is that the deal? I tell you what I drink and we’re good to go on the whole thing? Or is it just a professional obligation?”  
  
“It might not hurt to know some things about you,” Killian reasons, a glint his gaze that makes Emma’s stomach flip. It’s still in the back of her throat. “Whisky.”

“Good to know.”

* * *

“Wait, wait, wait, you’ve got to explain it again.”  
  
Emma shakes her head, continuing to pace the small circle she’s considering claiming as hers and she didn’t quite run out of the coffee shop as soon as Killian left, not even a full hour after he got there, but it was close. Numbers were exchanged. The plan to hang out again was made.

Exactly like that too. 

_ Hang out _ . 

The words make Emma want to gag. 

So she does. 

And groans. 

And Elsa’s eyes dart towards Ruby because Emma had barely gotten  _ out _ of the coffee shop she definitely hadn’t run out of before she’d yanked her phone out of her pocket and demanded some kind of quasi meeting and Elsa’s apartment is on the other side of town. 

Realizing that she may, in fact, be crazy is annoying. 

“I can’t go over it again,” Emma groans. “I just..I can’t. This is bad. This is really, really bad.”

“It could be good,” Elsa objects, whatever noise Ruby makes likely doing damage to the inside of her throat. 

“She agreed to fake date her actual soulmate,” Ruby yells. She’s waving her hands in the air. Like that will help her make her point. “A soulmate none of us knew she had.”

Emma cannot groan forever. She’s going to try anyway. “It wasn’t a big deal! It was--I had the moment when I was a kid and, yeah, maybe I’ve harped a little and--”  
  
“--You? Harp?”   
  
“Ok, don’t be rude.”   
  
Ruby doesn’t stop moving her hands. “I’m not. I’m confused. You don’t harp, Em. You move on and get over and don’t believe in soulmates.”   
  
“Because I knew mine was drifting through space! He wasn’t a threat!”   
  
“You think David’s college friend is a threat?” Elsa asks. “The one you agreed to go to the wedding with? And meet again?”  
  
Emma doesn’t groan. She sighs. In defeat. It’s worse. “I wanted to,” she whispers, an admission that isn’t that because Killian Jones is her  _ soulmate _ , but she might not be his and she should have said something. 

He should have said something. 

She wishes she’d kissed him. 

“Yeah, I know,” Elsa says, a note of pity in her voice that’s equal parts unnerving and comforting. “Ok, so let’s rehash real quick. David and Mary Margaret think you and Killian will be good together because you’re both anti soulmate. You, however, have known about your soulmate since you were sixteen when you--”   
  
“--Vision,” Emma supplies. “Of a hallway. He called me Emma.”   
  
“And he didn’t do that today?” Ruby asks.    
  
“No. We were in that coffee place a couple blocks away from my apartment. I think David was being secretly protective.”   
  
“Figures. And no first name?”   
  
“He called me Swan several times.”   
  
“Kitschy.”   
  
“That’s so weird though,” Elsa muses, Emma making some kind of noise that may be an agreement. “How often do you think one person can have a soulmate and it not go both ways?”

Ruby makes a face. “I’ve never heard of that before. It’s usually very reciprocated.”

“Fantastic,” Emma hisses. 

“And you didn’t tell him?”   
  
“How do I bring that up, Rubes. Oh, hey, my partner thinks we’d be a great match because we’re both so totally fucked by this soulmate thing that our greatest defining characteristic is how much we hate it, but, oh, also, guess what, I think you’re my soulmate? Yeah, that’d go over fantastic.”  
  
“Think?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“You said, think,” Elsa points out with a scrunch of her nose. “That’s kind of a lie, isn’t it?”

Emma hates that she blushes. “The world’s biggest, lie possibly." She nearly trips over her own feet. And she knows she doesn’t have any whisky at home. Just leftovers Mary Margaret gave her the night before. “On a scale of one to ten how bad do you think is going to go?”

“Honestly?”  
  
“I mean...no, but yeah.”   
  
“A twelve, at least.”   
  
“Yeah,” Emma agrees, mostly because she thinks they’re already at thirteen and he’d been far too easy to talk to. And attracted to. She can’t believe she ever thought Neal’s voice might have been  _ that _ voice. “Yeah, yeah. So. It’ll probably be fine, right?”   
  
Ruby hums, but her gaze darts to Elsa, an exchange without words that doesn’t need words. “Maybe if we say it some more, it’ll sound better.”  
  
“It’ll be fine.”   
  
“Once more with feeling.”   
  
“It’ll be fine.”

They’re definitely at fourteen now, and the gasp all three of them let out when Emma’s phone vibrates on the couch cushion is ridiculous. 

Her hand shakes when she grabs it. 

**It was nice to meet you, Swan. Maybe next time I can introduce you to espresso and you won’t dump your coffee everywhere.**

“Ah, damn,” Emma mumbles, heart hammering against her chest and this is already as not fine as it can be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this story from comes from the Jonas Brothers song "Sucker" which should tell you a lot about both my current state of mind. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	2. Chapter 2

“Ok, favorite movie?”  
  
“No one is going to ask you that.”   
  
Killian shrugs. They’re in a different coffee shop, some unspoken agreement that they’ll only meet in public places, and his legs are stretched out impossibly far, arms crossed lightly over his chest with a shirt on that is making it very difficult for Emma to concentrate.

Honestly, it may be that stupid piece of hair behind his ear.

“You don’t know that,” he argues. “And, strictly speaking, my interest in being fake soulmates with you has no bearing on my interest in knowing what your favorite movie is.”  
  
Emma’s pretty proud of her distinct lack of reaction. She doesn’t gasp. She doesn’t groan. She makes no noise whatsoever at _fake soulmates_ despite the certainty that the words actually cut their way through her.

“Was that supposed to be a compliment?”  
  
He shrugs again. It makes his shirt shift slightly, a patch of skin just above another pair of ridiculously tight pants and maybe he’s actively trying to drive her insane. Maybe the world just hates her. That seems more likely.

“It’s certainly how it was intended,” Killian says, taking a drink of another fancy coffee order. He got a latte this time. “And you’re avoiding the question, love.”  
  
Emma reacts at that. That’s disappointing.

She can feel her eyes bug, tongue darting between her lips because, at some point, she’d started breathing through her mouth and the flush that creeps up Killian’s cheeks is as nice as it is unexpected.

“Swan,” he mutters, like he’s correcting himself or reminding himself. Of something. Emma has no idea of what. “The movie. Favorites only.”  
  
“Ok, but that makes it seem like I have more than one favorite movie. That doesn’t make any sense. By definition.”   
  
“Do you think you were an English teacher in another life?”

“Was that a _Bye Bye Birdie_ reference?”   
  
“Absolutely not. And Dick Van Dyke was supposed to be the English teacher. Are you Dick Van Dyke in this scenario?”   
  
“He did have an overbearing mother.”   
  
“Are you suggesting Mary Margaret is is your overbearing mother?” Killian asks, a smile tugging at the end of his lips. Emma needs to stop staring at his lips.

“Nah, it’s definitely David. The whole thing is gender swapped you see.”  
  
“Ah, of course, of course. Ok, so no more _Bye Bye Birdie_ references.”   
  
“Why were you aware that was something I could have been making?”   
  
“Swan, this is still not answering the question.”   
  
She widens her eyes on purpose that time and they’ve been doing this for nearly two weeks now – coffee...meetings that very clearly aren’t dates because they very clearly aren’t soulmates, but it’s nice and good and comfortable and a few more adjectives that are several thousand times more emotional than that.

Emma’s fairly sure she’s at, like, twenty-six on the scale of how absolutely not fine this is.

“Killian,” she prompts when he doesn’t answer immediately, and his head snaps up like it’s on a timer. She can see the muscles in his throat move when he swallows. “Are you secretly a Broadway aficionado from the 60s?”  
  
“Only because it was forced upon me.”   
  
“Sounds violent.”   
  
“Nah, the opposite. A comforting force.”   
  
“You’re beating around something,” Emma accuses, and it’s only been a few weeks. Not even a full two. Technically, speaking. That’s barely any time. Her mind doesn’t care. It’s picked up on cues and ticks and little things, every tiny twitch and multiple moments and she’s got some secret stash of thoughts and feelings and how much she wants to know everything single thing about it him.

It terrifies her.

Because she’s absolutely setting herself up for disappointment.

“Only because it’s incredibly depressing,” Killian says. “And you’ve done a very good job of avoiding my question. But, uh…”

Another shrug, a little self deprecating and as depressing as advertised and Emma reaches forward on instinct and, maybe, magic she can’t control, resting her hand on the prosthetic at the end of his arm. They’re going to get kicked out of this coffee shop when their eyes both fall out of their respective heads.

It will probably make the news.

“My mom,” Killian whispers, eyes glancing down towards Emma’s hand and she doesn’t pull away. “Was very big on all that. Had ancient cast albums and a record player that only kind of worked and she used to play them when she cleaned the apartment.”  
  
Emma knows that tone. She’s felt it and experienced it, lived it more times than one person ever should, and it’s not something she’d ever wish on anyone.

Especially Killian.

“When?” she whispered.

He smiles. That feels like something important. An understanding. “I was ten. Very quick, very sudden, an even quicker ship off to the system.”  
  
“What?”   
  
Emma doesn’t quite bark out the word, but it’s very close and their eyes will not be able to cope with much more of this. “What do you mean, what?” Killian asks, clicking his tongue in frustration when he realizes he’s out of coffee. “That’s---I mean, my dad was an absolute dick and never around and Liam wasn’t--”   
  
“How long were you in the system?”   
  
She’s honestly impressed by how quickly he understands. It’s barely more than three seconds, a flash of his eyes that makes Emma wonder a whole slew of things she shouldn’t even be considering. They’re friends. She thinks.

She hopes.

She’s not great at that either.

Cowardly and a great, big giant liar, kind of petulant, just sort of a jerk and, now, a pessimist.

“Until I was eighteen,” Killian answers. “Liam wanted to get me out before then, but that’s expensive and there have to be lawyers and have you ever heard of soulmates that aren’t romantic?”  
  
Emma nods. “Elsa and her sister.”

"Well, Liam tried to do that, but it didn't work and who is Elsa, exactly?"  
  
“She’s a public defender. We’re friends.”   
  
“You’re a cop and friends with a public defender? Isn’t that against the rules?”   
  
“Nah,” Emma objects, but that’s kind of true too and it’s not fair how easily he can read her. “David was a little scandalized at first, but he gets along with Elsa’s sister anyway and Ruby said it was ok, so…”   
  
“And Ruby is?”   
  
“Is this an interrogation? I thought that was supposed to be my schtick.”

Killian grins. It’s distracting. She’s going to bring scissors to the next coffee shop they go to. “Genuine curiosity, love.”  
  
He does it on purpose. She’s positive. That’s...something.

“Ruby is the reason I’m here,” Emma says. “She grew up in this tiny little town in Maine. Grandmother owns a diner there. And I ended up there--maybe ten years ago? They let me stay there for awhile, then Ruby left for the great, big city and somehow met Mary Margaret.”  
  
“David’s Mary Margaret?”   
  
“You know a lot of other ones?” Killian shakes his head, eyes darting every few seconds to the hand Emma’s never moved. “Anyway, Ruby heard about an opening at the police department, the need for a few of us interested in preserving justice and told me I didn’t have any choice. There was no reason not to.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“No,” Emma echoes, a finality to her voice that grates on the inside of her throat. But they’re treading close to suddenly emotional territory and admissions she doesn’t want to get into in a coffee shop, apparently, a few blocks away from Killian’s apartment. “No reason to stay in Boston when there’s so much opportunity here. That’s, like, the New York slogan, right?”

He nods so slowly it’s barely a movement, lips parted slightly like he’s trying to come up with the right word and--”When did you get out, then?”  
  
Emma isn’t going to answer. She’s not. It’s too much and not enough and trying to be friends with your soulmate is much harder than she anticipated.

“Seventeen,” she says softly. “I ran away.”  
  
“To Maine?”

“Yup.”  
  
“And Boston right after Maine?”

“You’re very curious,” she says, and it comes out like an accusation. Killian purses his lips.

“Yes, I am. Piqued, even.”  
  
“I didn’t get to Boston for a couple of years. And I wasn’t really there very long. It’s expensive there, you know?”   
  
“I do,” Killian says, and maybe she’ll be better prepared for the never-ending string of surprises eventually. “Best cannoli?”   
  
“Mike’s, don’t even joke about that.”   
  
Killian chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “Anything else is blasphemy. I’m sorry you ran, Swan. It shouldn’t have been like that.”   
  
“Ah, a lot of things shouldn’t be the way they were.”   
  
“Yeah, I guess that’s true.” He takes a deep breath, licking his lips and there are definitely strangers staring at them. They’re far too close to each other. “ _Rear Window_.”

“Is that code?”  
  
“That’s my favorite movie.”   
  
“Oh my god, why?”   
  
“It’s good.”   
  
Emma blinks, scoffing slightly and laughing a bit and her smile has become something like second nature in the last few weeks. Not even two weeks. “ _Raiders of the Lost Ark._ ”   
  
“Are you kidding me? _Last Crusade_ is so much better.”   
  
“I didn’t critique your choice,” Emma argues, more curious stares cast her way. One of them comes from Killian. She’s poking her finger into his chest now. He is impossibly solid. “I mean, kind of, at least.”   
  
“At least,” he echoes. “Why that one, then?”   
  
“I like the rolling ball thing. I always wanted to see that show at Disney World.”   
  
It’s not the most emotional thing they’ve said all day, but it somehow feels like even more and then some and Emma is not even remotely prepared for the force of Killian’s answering smile. “Disney World, huh?”

“People go there.”  
  
“They do,” he agrees, and she’s not sure why it sounds like some kind of promise.

* * *

“You have a favorite Disney movie?”  
  
“Nope.”   
  
Emma shakes her head. “Nah, c’mon, everyone does. You just don’t want to admit it.”   
  
“That is not true at all,” Killian counters. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a Disney movie.”   
  
“Oh my God.”   
  
“When have I had time, love?”   
  
She supposes that’s fair. Everything else is absolutely not, but Emma’s only barely keeping her grip on her sanity at this point, so she doesn’t want to rock the metaphorical boat as it were. It’s started to feel...feelings.

Real feelings. Not just because she’s memorized every shift in his voice in the last two weeks. It’s been two full weeks now, of coffee on their lunch breaks and smiles when he texts her to make sure she gets home alright and the flutter of butterflies in the pit of her stomach whenever Emma sends him the same gif every morning. It’s LMFAO. From the _Shots_ video.

She’s honestly such a catch.

“That’s fair, I guess,” she admits. “Just like...never in your life?”  
  
“Nope.”   
  
“You’re trying to be annoying.”   
  
“Nope,” he says again, but that one comes with a smirk and a quick twist of his eyebrows and the butterflies threaten to fly out of Emma’s mouth and take over the world. She likes him. Even without the soulmate thing.

It’s problematic.

And not. 

Mostly because of the soulmate thing. 

But he's kind of funny, in a stupidly thinks he's charming sort of way, and she's noticed that he scratches the back of his ear when he's nervous, and seems to have an assortment of button-up shirts with increasingly ridiculous patterns. There haven't been fireworks. It's more a...soft simmer, like falling back into something calm and easy and Emma supposes that's why it has to be wrong. 

God, she's so bitter she's surprised her tongue doesn't rot. 

“I’m being honest with you. That’s a good thing, right?”   
  
The butterflies turn to ash.

“Sure,” Emma mumbles. “What if...what if we watched a Disney movie?”  
  
“When?”   
  
“I’m actually off this weekend.”

His whole body changes, eyes brightening and spine possibly stretching and Emma’s gasp is ridiculous as soon as his lips press against her cheek. They both freeze, looking anywhere except each other. “All weekend?” Killian whispers, and Emma hopes whatever nod she makes in response is actually audible. “You or me?”  
  
“You speak in these codes and I have no idea what you’re talking about.”   
  
“Do you want to come to my apartment or should I come to yours?”   
  
Oh. Oh. _Oh_.

“Yours,” Emma says before she can regret it, but letting him into her apartment seems like a line she can’t come back from and this is fake. They’re just friends. She’s the only one with a soulmate. “That’s---I’ve got no food anyway.”  
  
“Neither do I,” Killian laughs. “But I can get something. Or we can order things. Multiple things, even. Good stuff.”   
  
His voice picks up, excitement obvious in every letter and the weight of his smile. Emma’s pulse doesn’t know what to do with that. “I’m going to expect good stuff, then.”   
  
“That’s fair.”   
  
She shows up on Saturday afternoon with a bottle of whiskey and he must have ordered from every place in a ten-mile radius. The counter is covered with food and more alcohol than one person could ever possibly be expected to drink, his gaze more than slightly cautious when Emma freezes in the doorway.

“Too much?”  
  
“No,” she says, pleasantly surprised to find she means it. “You want to start at _Snow White_ and work our way through?”   
  
“Deal.”

Emma falls asleep somewhere in the forgotten period of 1970s Disney animation, a skip-ahead in the timeline because she’s always hated _One Hundred and One Dalmatians_ and _The Sword in the Stone_ used to freak her out after that one time she saw it when she was six. She wakes up to hear Killian mumbling under his breath about how historically inaccurate _Robin Hood_ is. He only stops when Emma points out that the protagonist in question is also a fox.

They only get off the couch to get more to drink and more egg rolls because Killian must have ordered a dozen egg rolls and Emma has no idea how he knew she’d want a dozen egg rolls. Good guess, or something.

And it’s way too late by the time she’s realizes it’s late, curled against Killian’s side with his fingers tracing absent-minded patterns on her back in a familiar sort of way that should be absolutely impossible. Emma doesn’t want to move. She has to move.

This is the worst.

Cowardly and a great, big giant liar, kind of petulant, just sort of a jerk and so goddamn depressed she’s positive she reeks with it.

“You don't have to go,” Killian mutters, fingers stilling.

“I should.”  
  
“Whatever you want, love. But--” She can feel him take a deep breath, chest shifting under her cheek. “You’re comfortable.”   
  
Words should not be...this. They should just be words and be finished and there should be far less angst in fake dating your soulmate. Only this whole thing has kind of felt a hell of a lot like a date and Emma’s starting to wonder if she’s just drowning.

At all times.

In the middle of Queens.

“Ok.”  
  
Killian’s fingers start moving again. “Ok.”

* * *

“So,” Mary Margaret says pointedly, a few weeks out of the wedding and Emma’s finally buying a dress. It’s because she’s been dreading this conversation. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Killian recently.”

Emma doesn’t groan. It’s the most mature thing she’s done since she first started hanging out with Killian. She still hates that string of words.

“Yup.”  
  
“And?”   
  
“And what?”   
  
Mary Margaret makes a noise in the back of her throat. “Nothing. I'm just observing.”   
  
“Are you just?” Emma laughs, glancing in the mirror and this dress looks pretty good. Everything's felt pretty good in the last three weeks. Like the world has settled on a new axis that’s more efficient with a better rotation angle.

“It’s not a bad thing,” Mary Margaret promises. “Just..a thought. About how happy you are. You should get that dress.”  
  
“Yeah?”   
  
Emma doesn’t mean her question to be two-fold. That’s how it comes out anyway. Mary Margaret totally knows that. She can’t keep a secret, but she might be omniscient. “Yes,” she says with a smile. “It’s just...it’s good that he has someone to talk to who isn’t David or Locksley or the bar.”   
  
“The bar is talking to him?”   
  
“Emma.”   
  
“I’m serious. Where are you going with this?”   
  
Mary Margaret sighs softly, like she’s at war with herself over what to say next. “I’m just saying it’s good. After everything that   
happened in Boston and--”   
  
“--When was he in Boston?”   
  
“That’s where he was before he got here,” Mary Margaret says slowly, clearly surprised Emma doesn’t know that. That’s fair. It’s probably the first thing a friend should ask. “He’d been there for a few years.”   
  
“With Milah?”   
  
“He told you about Milah?”   
  
Emma nods, the unspoken lie heavy on her tongue. “Yup.”   
  
“Well, it’s not my story. But, like I said, I’m just glad you’re happy. Both of you.”

* * *

**You can’t keep sending me the same text message every morning, Swan. Eventually you’re going to have to get more creative.**

_I’m not creative. This is as good as it’s going to get, buddy_.

**It’s good.**

_Yeah?  
_   
**Yeah. Be safe later, ok?**

_I’m not doing anything. Just following up on that lead with David._

**Safe, Swan. Please.**

_Ok. I’ll call you when my shift’s over._

**Good.**  

* * *

 “You need to go further up on the right.”  
  
Killian groans, but does as Emma instructs, moving the sign and glancing over his shoulder expectantly. Emma grins. “That’s good,” she nods.

“Good because I think I dislocated both my shoulders doing that.”  
  
She rolls her eyes. “You’re the most dramatic man in the world.”

“Not even the Tri-State area.”  
  
He flashes her a smile, shaking the hair away from his eyes and he asked her to come see the bar that afternoon. His shirt is sticking to his arms.

Emma really wants to kiss him. She texts Ruby that later.

The audio file Ruby sends back is fourteen straight seconds of her very loud laughter.

* * *

“Why don’t you believe in soulmates?”  
  
Emma startles at the question, curled into the corner of Killian’s couch with her head propped up on the arm and another Disney movie playing in the background.   
  
It’s a thing. Apparently.

“Well, that’s a question,” Emma mumbles, Killian’s expression turning almost regretful. “Why do you ask?”  
  
He shrugs. It looks like a lie. It feels like a lie. “Just wondering.”   
  
“Yuh huh. Well...Mary Margaret can’t actually keep a secret so...do you know about Neal?”   
  
“Should I?”   
  
“I’m surprised you don’t,” Emma says, nerves churning until she’s certain they’re burning the back of her throat. Emotional acid reflux. “Neal was...a guy. A guy I met in Boston. And it was good for awhile. Comfortable and normal and I thought--well, a lot of things I shouldn’t have.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“And what happened?”   
  
“I’m here, aren’t I?”   
  
Killian hums. “If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to Swan.”   
  
Emma considers that – rehashing past pains and almost theres and she’d really thought Neal had been it. She’s not sure if it’s worse now that he isn’t. Mostly because  _it_ is sitting across from her with wide eyes that are obviously interested and too blue to be fair and she takes a deep breath before she actually decides.

“I thought Neal was a good guy,” Emma explains. “He was nice and charming and not always on the up and up, but I was doing bail bonds, not actual police work and I didn’t really care as long as I got the paycheck. Anyway, I knew he was into some shady stuff, but I liked him. He liked me. We were good. Until we were very not good.”  
  
Killian’s expression darkens slightly, concern almost palpable. “How not good is not good?”   
  
“Almost jail not good.”   
  
“What?” he balks, and that’s an emotion Emma is not entirely prepared for. The muscles in his throat shift when he swallows, eyes narrowing until they’re not much more than slits and his chest heaves when she rests her hand there.

“Take, like, eight-hundred steps back. I obviously didn’t go to jail. But it was--well, it was close. He was fencing this stuff, watches or something and I showed up before I was supposed to. There was a raid and lots of stun guns and have you ever been tased?”  
  
“Someone tased you?”   
  
“It’s not something I’d suggest experiencing.”   
  
“Fucking hell, Swan,” Killian breathes, fingers wrapping around her wrist. “That’s insane.”   
  
“Yeah, turned out he was not that great of a dude. He got off from any major time. Community service and a fine, because he’s dad’s super rich and the justice system is a joke, so…”   
  
“His dad is super rich and he was still fencing shit?”   
  
Emma nods. “He said it was kind of a thrill. You know, sticking it to the man or whatever.”   
  
“What an ass.”   
  
“Yeah, in retrospect. But, uh...I was kind of mad about everything still. The whole childhood thing leaves just this gaping hole of bitterness and one family in Ohio said I was, wait for it, too testy to be adopted.”   
  
“Testy?”   
  
“That’s what they said. On the official report.”   
  
Killian clicks his tongue, anger turning to disbelief almost visibly. “That’s not true, Swan.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“No,” he says, and it sounds like a promise. Her heart grows, the feel of it pressing between each one of  her ribs and several different internal organs until she’s almost concerned for the state of her spleen.

She probably doesn’t need her spleen.

She’d probably give up her spleen if he kept looking at her like that.

“You are…” Killian adds, “the opposite of that. Determined and a little stubborn, with some very strong opinions on Chinese food--”  
  
“--Those egg rolls we got the other day were garbage and you know it!”   
  
“So you mentioned, Swan. The point I’m making is that even if you hoped this asshole might have been something more than what he was, he still would have been the world’s biggest dick for ever thinking you deserved to get lied to.”

Her spleen hurts. It’s ridiculous.

“Thanks,” she whispers, not nearly enough. She can’t come up with another word. Killian smiles.   
  
“That’s not something you have to thank me for, love. Ever.”

She can feel the heat in her cheeks, heart hammering against her chest. And she hasn't, actually, come out and answered his question. "So, um," Emma mumbles, "that's it, I guess. I just--I thought, Neal was something or could have been someone and I really did love him and--" She shrugs. It's depressing. Killian's eyes are still impossibly narrow. "Well, it wasn't the moment, I guess."

"Have you?"

"Have I what?"

"Had a moment?"

"God, I hate that. It's such a dumb name."

"Yeah, it is," Killian agrees, clearly noticing the bitterness in her voice and Emma can almost see him staging his retreat. "I'm sorry. That's, I shouldn't have--"

"--I thought it was Neal," Emma cuts in. The words are sharper than she intends them to be, but they also feel like they're doing permanent damage to her lips and Killian worries enough while she's at work. She can't imagine what he'll do if she starts bleeding from metaphorical knives on his couch. 

"He wasn't."

She freezes. 

Every single one of her muscles tenses. 

It is equally the single worst and best thing she's ever experienced in her life. 

And Killian's mouth is hanging open, eyes staring straight at her with an intensity that does something else to Emma's muscles and several different biological systems and it's entirely possible her spleen has just fallen on the floor at this point. She kind of feels like she's crumbling apart anyway. 

"He wasn't," Killian repeats, softer, but just as determined, a certainty in every single letter than Emma can't wrap her mind around. Yet. She assume she'll think about it on loop for, at least, the next forty-eight hours, though. "He...he couldn't have been. The whole soulmate thing is a mess, Swan. It's--" Another shrug. She's counting now. It's absurd. "Everyone's got a different way of knowing and they all want it, but it's...it should be more than that, don't you think?"

"Sure?"

"Swan."

"I'm just not sure where you're going with this."

"It's not forced love, but it's--well, it's supposed to be easier, right? And there's nothing wrong with people who don't have soulmates."

"You're genuinely not making any sense."

Killian scowls, leaning forward and Emma isn't sure if he means to do that. "I know, I know, I just..."

“Why do you order such ridiculous coffee every time we go out?”  
  
He chuckles, a quick press of what may actually be his lips to the bridge of her nose. “That same bitterness as you, I suppose. And a distinct lack of money or anything except, sometimes, the clothes on my back. I can do it now, so I’m going to get extra foam. Why don’t you get better coffee?”   
  
“That’s just a very pointed judgment regarding my coffee order.”   
  
“And not an answer.”

Emma sighs. He’s right. And very good at understanding. “I don’t want to overstep,” she mumbles. “Get more than I deserve.”  
  
“That’s not how it works, Swan.”   
  
“Tell that to my brain.”   
  
He leans forward slowly and for one crazy second she thinks he’s actually going to kiss her. She wants him to, desperately if she’s being honest, but that’s _him_ and not her and the lying is getting harder. “That’s not how it works, Swan,” Killian repeats, pressing the words to the crown of her head.

She feels her smile spread across her face slowly, settling there. For posterity or something. “That was ridiculous.”  
  
“You believe me?”   
  
“A work in progress.”   
  
He definitely kisses her hair. “Good.”

* * *

The bar opens. A week before the wedding, which Emma thinks is absolutely insane, but Killian just flashes her a smile and it makes a little more sense after that.

He’s standing behind the counter, a towel draped over his shoulder and there are several pieces of hair she’d like to do something about. Brush away. Slowly. Possibly romantically.

She feels a little drunk already.

“What’s your poison, love?”  
  
Emma’s laugh is far too loud. It soars out of her, makes her body shake and forces the edge of the counter into her stomach. She’s leaning over the counter. “You can’t use that when you have actual customers, you know,” she says. “They’ll walk out.”   
  
“That’s a legitimate question.”   
  
“No, it’s not. That’s a bad pun used in, like, movies from the 70s.”   
  
“Ah, we haven’t really focused on movies from the 70s, yet, have we?”   
  
Emma stops laughing. Her lips feel very dry. “No,” she mutters. “Not yet.”

“And, strictly speaking, it was really more of a rhetorical question, than anything.” Killian grins again, crouching to grab a glass and his eyebrows do something absurd when he flips it. And catches it. “Also, are you suggesting you’re not an actual customer, Swan?”

She hopes her lips don’t actually crack right there.

That would be gross.

Super gross.

Not appropriate for a bar opening with all their friends around gross.

Emma shakes her head slowly, tongue flashing between her lips and he’s still smiling at her. She’s having a difficult time breathing. Which is also impressive since her mouth is hanging open. “I’m just, you know--”  
  
“Right,” Killian says, nudging a glass of whiskey towards her hands. It’s filled to the brim. “You are my favorite customer. Bar none.”   
  
“Was that also a joke?”   
  
“Not intentionally.”   
  
“Impressive, then.”   
  
He hums, another twist of eyebrows. “Right? You want to watch me throw glassware again?”   
  
“Do not throw glasses,” Robin calls from the other side of the bar. Emma laughs again. And Killian’s smile softens, eyes falling back to Emma when his hand tugs on the hair behind his ear.

“I’m going to throw more glasses.”  
  
“Oh, I know you are,” Emma says, and it sounds like a promise.

He only breaks one, a fact he’s quick to point out, hours later, tucked into the corner with his arm around Emma and her head on his shoulder.

She doesn’t notice anyone else staring at them.

* * *

 

“You kiss him yet?” Ruby asks, perched on the edge of Emma’s desk the day before they’re supposed to leave for the rehearsal dinner.   
  
“Get off there.”   
  
“Yes or no?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“You want to?”   
  
“Obviously.”   
  
Ruby chuckles, but it’s almost sympathetic. “Yeah, I figured. He’s probably going to die when he sees your dress.”

* * *

“How many shoes are you bringing?” Killian calls from the other side of the apartment and Emma’s not sure when she just started coming there consistently, but it must have been after the Disney thing and he really liked _Tangled_. She can’t even make fun of that.

She really likes _Tangled_.

“Uh…three?”  
  
“Three?”   
  
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

He leans around the bedroom door, skepticism painted on every single inch of his face. “Three? Should I be bringing three pairs of shoes?”

Emma waves her hands through the air, and she’s going to have to leave soon. She’s got to get up to drive out to some castle on Long Island and _of course_ Regina is getting married on a castle on Long Island. There’s going to be so much weekender traffic heading East.

And she’s not entirely sure why she’s being asked these kinds of questions, but everything has been so easy and _hanging out_ isn’t that, so much as it’s just existing in each other’s spaces.

Like they’re supposed to.

Cowardly and a great, big giant liar, kind of petulant, just sort of a jerk, so goddamn depressed she’s positive she reeks with it and an incredible over-packer.

Three pairs of shoes is entirely unnecessary.

“Your heels, sneakers and flats?” Killian lists, still twisted and the door frame must be pressing into his liver.

“Nah, two pairs of flats.”  
  
“That was my second guess.”   
  
“Sure it was. What time are you going to leave tomorrow?” Emma asks. She jumps off the couch, swinging open the refrigerator door in a familiar way and he’s started buy vanilla coke zero. He never drinks it.

Emma averages two cans a day.

“Killian?” she continues, flinching when she feels a hand curling around her shoulder. “God, don’t sneak up on me like that. I definitely could have punched you in the face.”

He laughs, the feel of it brushing against the side of her neck and that one very specific spot behind her ear and Emma knows there are goosebumps on her skin. She bites her lower lip. “I really doubt that, love. Think of all the damage you could inflict.”  
  
“Far too confident in your own good looks.”   
  
“Undoubtedly.”

She doesn't giggle. She will tell herself that for several hours later that night, she’s sure. She does, at least smile, head falling back without her explicit permission. Killian doesn’t flinch. “What time?’ she asks again. “There’s going to be so much traffic on the Expressway.”  
  
“We’ll take the Northern State.”   
  
“Oh, that’s even--wait, did you say we?”   
  
He spins her, quick enough that her socks squeak on the linoleum floor. The tips of his ears have gone red. “A thought,” Killian murmurs. “More efficient. Something about our carbon footprints. And I just--I thought maybe we could talk.”   
  
“You don’t want to talk now?”   
  
“How much whiskey have you had?”   
  
“Not a ton,” Emma sputters, but Killian is impossibly good at reading her and she’s honestly the world’s worst liar. “How much rum have you had?”   
  
“Enough.”

She narrows her eyes, suspicion fluttering at the base of her skull. "What are you thinking?"

"How do you know I'm thinking anything?"

"You're doing that thing with your face." And for how narrow her eyes were, or, maybe, still are, Killian's widen to a near-comical size, taking up half his face and Emma grits her teeth. Hard. It makes her jaw ache. "I just..." she stammers, waving her hands in the air. That is not making it less awkward. "Well, you have a face."

"I think you may be drunk."

"You wan to talk about secret things!"

Killian sighs out a sound that isn't quite a laugh, but may just be the audible version of very real nerves and Emma continues to ignore the fluttering. It's not quite suspicion anymore, so much as it's...fear. That's absurd. She's got nothing to be scared of. This is fine.  _It's fine_. They're going to drive to a castle and fake everything and lie to several people if they ask and she assumes Cora only stocks her open bars with top shelf liquor. 

So, that's, like, a very real positive. 

And yet. 

She's scared and nervous and scared, again, just for good measure. That this very real, very good thing, that is also the most positive  _anything_ she can remember having in forever is about to blow up. Right in her face. 

Emma wishes he weren't actually her soulmate. 

It'd be easier that way.

"Not secret, love," Killian mutters, and she hasn't been breathing. "Important. That's--" His teeth find his lip, fingers tugging on the back of his hair. "--I think we should both be pretty sober for it."  
  
“Ok...so you want to drive out to the castle--”   
  
“--Oheka,” Killian interrupts. “That was on the invitation, love.”   
  
“Please, like you’ve done anything with the invitation except glare at it for costing too much.”   
  
“It’s Oheka. It’s very fancy. Very famous. I can pick you up tomorrow. I don’t mind driving.”   
  
Emma nods. “Or, um...well, my stuff is already in my car. I threw it in there today so I didn’t have to worry about it tomorrow. I figured I’d leave early so I’d beat the traffic.”   
  
“You brought all your stuff here?” Killian asks, and the hint of hope in his voice feels cruel and unusual. Emma’s a cop. She knows how that works. She’s torturing herself though, so that’s probably different. “Stay here then.”   
  
It’s not a question. It’s a hope and a want and she finds herself nodding again, the whiskey in her veins thrumming with the magic of _everything_ and she needs to tell him. This is such a bad idea.

“Ok.”  
  
“Ok.”   
  
They spend no more than five minutes arguing sleeping arrangements, Emma rolling her eyes dramatically and Killian huffing and it’s pointless because she’s pretty positive they both want to sleep in the bed and, well...they do. It’s the best she’s slept in _years_ , an easy rest that feels deeper than REM and like the start of something and everything and she moves her car into Killian’s spot after he grabs her bag out of the backseat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kevin Jonas got married at Oheka Castle. The Jonas theme is real here. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	3. Chapter 3

“What kind of music is this?”  
  
“Good music.”  
  
Emma shakes her head, slumping further into the passenger’s seat. She rests her feet on the dashboard, fully expecting the eyebrow arch she gets. From both eyebrows. And Killian’s lips twitch. She may, admittedly, be picking a fight.

So his lips will twitch.

She may be staring at his lips.

She slept so well the night before.

“This is not music,” Emma argues, lolling her head to the side. Killian’s eyes flit towards hers, not taking his gaze completely off the road, which is probably for the best, since there’s a surplus of weekender traffic and the Long Island Expressway is starting to look a bit like a parking lot. “This is...I don’t even know.”  
  
“Your points are really astounding, love.”  
  
Emma can’t help the smile that splits her face. It makes her cheeks cramp and leaves something in her stomach that may be butterflies, a warmth and ease and--”What kind of appetizers do you think they’ll have?”

“Locksley mentioned something about a cocktail hour and a fish course.”  
  
“Wow,” Emma says, a low whistle that draws a laugh out of Killian. She’s still staring at his mouth. And the fingers that flutter on the steering wheel, not sure if he’s keeping time to the music she doesn’t really dislike all that much or doing his best not to reach for her.

She hopes it’s the second.

She should tell him the truth at some point.  
  
Maybe after the wedding.

She doesn’t know what happens after the wedding.

“I hate seafood,” Emma adds, and that time his laugh is a little louder. He reaches for her hand.

“Tell you what, Swan, you can eat all the baked mozzarella--”  
  
“--Baked mozzarella?”  
  
“That’s apparently what Cora is calling it, because fried is too offensive or something.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
“So you eat all the baked mozzarella and I’ll make sure it looks like you’re an actual adult who’s actually willing to try and eat new things.”  
  
“This is getting a little opinionated, don’t you think?”  
  
Killian shakes his head. “Not at all? We got a deal?”

Emma considers it for a moment -- the sound of her pulse in her ears beating in time with the music. “We’ve got a deal. But you’ve got to eat, like, at least four shrimp.”  
  
“That’s fair, love.”

He squeezes her hand and they stay exactly where they are. In the middle of the world’s largest traffic jam.

* * *

The whole thing is a little overwhelming.

That is a lie. Little is a gross understatement. The castle is a _castle_ in a fairy tale sort of way, rented out for the weekend because Regina’s family may actually be royalty and Mary Margaret looks a little embarrassed by the whole thing.

Emma keeps sending photos to Ruby.

If only to show Killian her responses. It makes him laugh. And linger in Emma’s space. She’s a crazy person.

Cowardly and a great, big giant liar, kind of petulant, just sort of a jerk, so goddamn depressed she’s positive she reeks with it, an incredible overpacker and maybe a little clingy.

And they’re hours into the day, traffic long forgotten and whatever Killian wanted to talk about never discussed because there was an accident by exit 37 that kept them at a standstill for a solid forty-five minutes and Emma’s not worried about it.

It hasn’t lingered in the back of her brain all day, making it difficult to pay attention to a rehearsal dinner she probably shouldn't have been a part of anyway. David kept shooting her and Killian furtive looks from the other side of the hall.

This was the kind of castle where the dining rooms looked like halls.

So, Emma grabs two glasses of champagne for herself, finds a spot outside where she can see some stars and takes her heels off. She makes it through half a glass before she hears the footsteps. It makes her smile.

“You trying to run away, love?”  
  
Emma downs the rest of her champagne, holding the other glass up over her shoulder. “Nah, just trying not to scream with all that romance in there.”  
  
His fingers are warm when they brush over hers, pulling the glass away and sinking onto the bench, close enough that she swears she can feel the warmth radiating out of him. There’s a pulse to it, as if it’s trying to get Emma’s heart to match up with its rhythm and that’s far too romantic a thought, particularly with all the things she’s already run away from and, maybe, running towards and--

“What did you want to tell me before?”  
  
Killian tenses, breath catching audibly. “Oh, uh...that’s--”

“--And, as a follow-up were you in Boston at some point?”

“Yeah.”  
  
His voice is clipped, cautious and something else that sounds a bit like the absolute fear Emma can feel in the pit of her stomach. She needs to tell him the truth. She’s not sure how that’s going to end well.

She can still hear the music coming from the hall.

“When?”  
  
“That’s uh...that’s kind of what I wanted you to talk about.” Emma blinks, neck aching when she nods as slowly as humanly possible. Killian’s tongue darts between his lips. “So, uh...I know David told you I didn’t believe in soulmates, but that wasn’t---I told you my mom died when I was a kid. And Liam couldn’t afford to take care of me, so I went into the system until I aged out and followed him. Navy,” he supplies when Emma’s face presumably does something vaguely confused. “Served for awhile. Until--”

He lets out a shuddering breath, eyes falling towards his lap and Emma reaches out instinctively. She squeezes his hand, a tight smile on her lips. “Did Liam die?”  
  
“Badly. As if there’s a good way to die. But it was...well it was a mistake and there was lots of paperwork, but then he was gone and it was over and I didn’t really--I left, Swan. Ran, honestly. As quickly and as far as I could and I ended up in Boston the day after the funeral with no plan and no idea and I…”  
  
“What?”

Emma hates the way the question shakes out of her, but she’s got half an idea and an inkling of hope and Killian tugs her hand up towards his lips before he answers. Her heart stutters. “It was like the Earth flew into a black hole or something. Like I could feel everything and want everything and I was standing on a T-platform in Beacon Hill and I swear it was--it was like waking up. It was the best thing that had ever happened to me at the worst moment in my life.”

She blinks. It’s a pretty lame response, really. She can’t come up with another one.

“I don’t…”  
  
“I met Milah three days later.”  
  
Oh. _Oh_. Damn. God damn. God damn, fuck, shit damn.

“Right,” Emma mumbles, trying to pull her hand back to her side and it doesn’t work. He’s holding onto her too tightly. There’s probably a metaphor there. It’s probably depressing. “Right, right, well...that’s good, then, huh?”  
  
Killian gives her a rueful laugh, half a smile. “I don’t think you’re supposed to watch your soulmates die, love. That seems wrong, don’t you think?”  
  
“You watched her die?”  
  
“Car accident. All the tragic high points of wrong place, wrong time and she’d only just left her husband, which...soulmates probably shouldn’t have other husbands to begin with, right?”  
  
“Probably not. Is that…?” She nods towards his hand, fingers ghosting over the plastic.

“Yeah, yeah, the whole thing was incredibly horrendous. Twisted metal and I can remember things being on fire and I was in the hospital for a small eternity. It kind of...you said before I was a little bitter? It’s more than that, Swan. That night changed everything, left me with nothing and no one and I thought Milah was my soulmate. Was sure of it, couldn’t come up with a scenario where she wasn’t, but…”  
  
“But?” Emma prompts, not sure she wants the answer.

“I don’t think soulmates really exist. There’s no way. Not if I felt that and then got it pulled away and this has been--” Killian shakes his head, another laugh pressed into the bend of Emma’s knuckles. She can feel him smile. “I’m not faking it, Emma. I like you and I like spending time with you and I--”

She doesn’t let him finish.

She should. She should tell him that he’s her soulmate and she’s been thinking about his voice since she was sixteen, but the words get caught in her mouth and kissing Killian Jones is better than anything Emma imagined.

She imagined it quite a bit.

His lips move over hers in a pattern that is impossibly familiar, tilting his head until they’re practically occupying the same space and whatever noise he makes as soon as her fingers fly into his hair will be branded on every one of her memories for the rest of her life.

She tries to arch up, but that only ends with her climbing onto his lap and they’re half a second away from public indecency. At a castle.

They don’t move. They don’t even try. They rock against each other, falling into a rhythm and a bit of momentum, both clearly desperate for any kind of friction and Emma is certain the stars she was looking at a few minutes before explode as soon as Killian’s mouth drops to her collarbone.

He laughs.

“Asshole,” she grumbles, but it’s an endearment and he knows it and maybe she can work with this. Maybe she’s the _worst_. Maybe she just wants to be greedy for a moment.

She wants to be wanted. At least for the night.

“Yeah, that’s definitely the sentiment I was going for,” Killian grins, another kiss to her skin and more goosebumps. “You cold, love?”  
  
“Oh my God, I’m going to strangle you.”  
  
“You’d mess up your nails.”  
  
He knows she got a manicure two days before. Her nails had looked like shit from guns and criminals and that second one wasn’t really an excuse, but Emma was irregularly hopeful and she really can’t think when he kisses her.

“That’s frustratingly practical,” Emma mumbles, dragging her nails down the back of his neck. He makes that noise again.

That’s why she did it.

“You want to be anywhere that isn’t here?” she asks. She yelps when Killian stands up. With her. “Jeez, neanderthal. I can walk on my own.”  
  
He hums, still kissing her and it’s kind of messy and decidedly _not_ practical and Emma has no idea how they get back inside. They stumble and trip, hands moving quickly and slowly, a weird give and take of emotion and feeling and everything Emma isn’t telling him.

Cowardly and a great, big giant liar, kind of petulant, just sort of a jerk, so goddamn depressed she’s positive she reeks with it, an incredible overpacker, maybe a little clingy, and exceedingly selfish.

She gasps when her back collides with a door, head bouncing slightly. Her hair’s fallen down her back, strands threatening to poke her in the eye, but then Killian’s fingers are brushing across her cheek with a reverence that makes Emma wonder if time itself hasn’t paused to let her linger in this moment.

She wants to put up camp in this moment.

She wants to hoard it and think about it and it’s still not _the moment_. That’s...that’s weird.

“I like you too,” Emma says, and it’s not nearly enough, but it might be as good as she’s going to get and she really wants him to know. His answering smile makes it seem worth it.

Killian ducks his head almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth, tongue brushing across her lips and hand still cupping her cheek. It’s a mix of heady and not, of absolutely normal and the complete opposite and Emma never has any idea how they get the door open without falling over.

They leave a trail of clothes in their wake, shoes thrown without much thought to their direction and the rush of feeling that moves from the top of her head to the tips of her toes as soon as Killian hovers above her is enough to change the course of the universe.

Like a second Big Bang.

Or fireworks. Of the metaphorical variety.

* * *

She wakes with a start, breath catching in her throat and if everything exploded a few hours before, then the debris is suddenly landing on Emma's head. 

It's painful. 

She leaves. It’s stupid. She hates that she does it. She does it anyway, sunlight creeping in through gauzy curtains and she gets ready with Mary Margaret because Emma doesn’t have her own room.

She’s there with Killian.

As fake soulmates. Real soulmates. Kind of. It’s not going to work.

She’s an idiot.

And Mary Margaret doesn’t look all that surprised when she opens the door.  
  
“C’mon,” she says with a softly smile. “I’ll do your hair.”

* * *

She tells Mary Margaret. Mary Margaret’s eyes widen.

That’s the only reaction.

Emma can’t decide if that’s good or not.

Her dress is very red. 

* * *

It is genuinely unfair how good he looks in his tux. It’s well-tailored and he should probably never return it and Emma nearly bites her tongue in half sitting in a chair that’s getting more uncomfortable by the minute, listening to vows and promises and Killian tries to meet her gaze no less than eleven times during the ceremony.

Emma ignores him every, single time.

Because there are soulmates getting married and the whole thing is probably one, monumental joke the universe is playing on her and there was never a moment.

Not the right one, at least.

It doesn’t make any sense.

She ignores looks twelve through sixteen too, each one getting a little more concerned and pinched, the mark between his eyebrows likely going to become permanent at some point.

And she’s so busy doing whatever it is she’s doing that Emma barely hears _Mr. and Mrs._ or _kiss the bride_ , just glances up to find look seventeen staring at her with enough feeling that she has to dig her nails into her palm to stop herself from moving.

“Swan,” Killian calls, a few minutes later with the crowd mulling in the lobby and a camera shutter snapping in the background and he’s already tugging his tie off.

Emma plasters a smile on her face, well aware of how fake it looks even without Killian’s arched eyebrow. “Swan,” he repeats, a hand landing on her hip. “Hey, where--where did you go before? I--David texted me that you were there and--”  
  
“--That’s where I was.”

“I kind of wanted to talk to you.”  
  
“Didn’t we do that?” Emma asks. “And not talk?”  
  
His tongue flashes, the tip of it lingering in the corner of his mouth and that’s only slightly distracting. “Yeah, that’s true. Still doesn’t explain why you went to Mary Margaret and David’s room. You could have woken me up, you know.”  
  
“I had to get ready.”  
  
“Your stuff was in our room.”  
  
That word bounces around her brain with the memories and the wants and, probably, some more misplaced hope. She nods. She must. Her hair moves, at least.  
  
“Swan,” Killian sighs, and this is only getting worse. That’s almost impressive. Or it would be if it didn’t suck such so much. “What is going on? If it’s--listen, I know last night was--”  
  
“--Last night was not something we should do again,” Emma interrupts. “It was...well, it was a mistake and this has been--we’ve been pretending, right? To get David off our collective and individual backs and get drunk? Did they open the bar yet?”  
  
“What? No, I--Swan, I told you yesterday. I’m not faking anything. You said you weren’t. You said--”  
  
“--I know what I said,” she snaps, and one of them should be able to finish a single sentence. Killian’s shoulders slump. “I know. I just...maybe you had a soulmate. I don’t want to--”

“You’re not.”  
  
“Killian, c’mon, let’s be honest--”  
  
“--I am being nothing but honest with you, Emma. The whole truth. My whole…” He inhales sharply, hissing the air through his teeth and there’s a glossiness to his gaze that wasn’t there in the last seventeen versions.

Emma’s nails are going to cut her palms.

“I meant what I said,” Killian finishes. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I think this is--”

He nearly growls when someone coughs behind them, less-than-polite and a little familiar and Emma knows Cora doesn’t remember her. “Mr. Jones,” she says cooly. “And guest.”  
  
“Emma,” Killian hisses. “This is Emma. She’s friends with your step-daughter.”  
  
“Oh, yes, of course. I thought I recognized the face. Did you two come together?”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma mumbles, several thousand emotions clinging to each letter and all of them might just boil down to disappointment.

~~Cowardly and a great, big giant liar, kind of petulant, just sort of a jerk, so goddamn depressed she’s positive she reeks with it, an incredible overpacker, maybe a little clingy, and exceedingly selfish.~~

Sad.

That’s the word for it. All-encompassing and all-consuming and she’s sad.

The tear that lands on her cheek seems a little pointless.

“Swan?”  
  
Emma shakes her head brusquely, but the tears don’t stop. If anything, they fall quicker, like they’re trying to prove a point and she should have told him from the start. She doesn’t understand why it hasn’t _happened_ yet.

Maybe she’s just crazy.

That might be better.

“Together,” Cora echoes, either not reading the situation or, simply, not caring. “Interesting. And soulmate as well, I’d assume. You look rather close.”

Emma squeezes her eyes shut, praying to a variety of Gods she isn’t sure actually exist that she can disappear. She doesn’t. She feels Killian’s arm wrap around her instead, pulling her flush against his side and his cheek brushes over her hair when he nods. “Yeah. Soulmates.”  
  
Cora’s smile looks less than impressed. “Good for you. Always so wonderful when two people are able to find each other like that.”

“Would you excuse me?” Emma asks, voice rough and there are tears falling off her chin now.

She doesn’t wait for a response, just uncurls herself from Killian’s arm and marches down the hall with a purpose she absolutely does not have. A soulmate without a match and an orphan that no one wanted and, really, magic can go suck it.

Her legs stop moving about three-quarters of the way down the hall, dim lighting and a horribly patterned rug that she can’t believe Regina didn’t demand be removed and Emma’s dress bunches under her thighs when she slides down the wall.

It takes Elsa two full rings to pick up.

“Bad?”

“Yup,” Emma says, popping her lips on the word and the soft sigh in her ear is comforting in an end of the world sort of way. That feels melodramatic and kind of exactly what’s happening, something about the Earth and its previously affected rotation.

“Did you tell him?”  
  
“I can’t.”  
  
“Em,’ Elsa chastises. “You’ve got to tell him. What’s the worst that could happen? You’ve been together almost non-stop for more than a month. Even if he doesn’t believe in soulmates, this could still--”  
  
“--No, no, you don’t get it,” Emma cuts in, and eventually she will stop crying. Maybe in the next ten years. Whatever magical feeling she’d been feeling the night before has disappeared though, leaving an echo and an emptiness that feels as if it’s taking over her entire being.

A black hole.

She thinks that’s how the science works.

“What don’t I get?”  
  
“He doesn’t believe in soulmates--”  
  
“--We knew that already, that was part of the pitch.”

Emma shakes her head. Elsa can’t see her. She’s in a castle hallway. “He doesn’t believe in soulmates because his was killed. Tragically. And horribly. When he was in Boston, right after his brother died.”  
  
Elsa doesn’t respond immediately. Emma blinks. Twice. And one more time. “Thoughts,” she says, dragging the word out cautiously.

“Several thousand, honestly. But mostly...he was in Boston? At the same time you were in Boston? Like, maybe the same days, even?”  
  
Emma will promise for the rest of her life that she doesn’t freeze. And she doesn’t really – she’s blinking almost hyperactively, breath coming in pants and the fist she makes at her side causes her fingers to ache. She doesn’t freeze. She does everything else. Because she doesn’t have an answer.

And the thought hadn’t ever crossed her mind.

“I don’t--” she starts, jerking her head up when she hears cautious footsteps and he doesn’t move any further, standing stock-still with his tuxedo jacket gone and his hands in his pockets and the ghost of a smile lingering in the corners of his mouth.

“What day did you get to Boston?” Killian asks.

“What? That’s---I don’t understand.”  
  
Elsa’s saying something in the phone. Emma hangs up. She’ll apologize for that later.

“The date, love, please,” Killian says, and he still hasn’t moved. “Or the month. What month did you get there?”  
  
“What day did you get to Boston?” Emma challenges. His smile wavers, turning into something almost incredulous. Emma understands that. She can’t believe she’s asking for qualifiers, more misplaced hope lingering at the base of her spine. “Did David tell you something? Some crazy idea of this working and happily ever after? Because it doesn’t add up. It doesn’t. I’ve, well, I’ve been here for two years. It can’t--it’s not what you think it is.”  
  
“And what do I think it is?”

Emma glares at him. “Stop it. This is--”  
  
“--How long were you in Boston? A straight answer, Swan, it’s not that hard.”

“Yes, it is! It’s--” She shakes her head, jumping up and her phone crashes to the ground. Her skin is cracked. That’s probably a sign. “And it’s so stupid because soulmates are just forced love and expectations and I hate it. I hate the whole idea of it.”

Her whole body sags as soon as her jaw snaps shut, completely pitiful and just as sad as advertised. She’s crying again, tears blurring her vision which is probably why she doesn’t see Killian until he’s crowding into her space, an arm wrapping around her middle.

Emma’s hands move to his chest.

“It’s so stupid,” she repeats. “But I knew. I knew as soon as you walked in and you ordered that stupid coffee. I’d heard you before. When I was sixteen. I’d just been dropped off at a new group home because the last thing had been a disaster and it was like getting struck by lightning and--I knew, Killian, I knew.”  
  
She pulls in a deep breath, trying to regain her bearings but that’s admittedly difficult when Killian’s fingers lace through hers. “That was the moment. But it wasn’t for you. There was no--”

He doesn’t let her finish.

It’s incredibly cyclical.

One second she’s stammering out explanations and tears and the next his lips are back on hers and she’s pushing up on her toes to meet him easier and she should arrest herself for self-inflicted torture.

It’s better than it was the first time, more metaphors to be made about space and probably something about gravity and Emma briefly wonders if there are magnets in Killian’s hair.

It makes her laugh, the sound bubbling out of her. She can feel his smile, the arm around her waist tightening and she genuinely can’t believe she didn’t realize before.

She should have known as soon as she saw the world’s ugliest carpet.

Killian pulls away, dragging his mouth against her jaw instead and Emma’s back arches when he lands on her neck, tracing across skin and that spot behind her ear and she refuses to be held accountable for whatever noise she makes as soon as she hears the words.

Her words.

In her voice.

“It’s you, Emma.”

And just like that, it’s as if everything has settled. The world takes a deep breath, everything calm and normal and _perfect_ in the way that nothing has ever been before and couldn’t ever hope to be again.  
  
“This whole time, Emma,” Killian continues, “it was you.”

“How?”  
  
“How? Did you just ask me how? What do you mean how?”  
  
“Exactly what that word means,” Emma mumbles impatiently, and that should not be an adverb she’s using in this situation. Her calves are starting to ache. “Ok, ok, I’m very confused. You don’t have a soulmate anymore. That’s...that’s right, right?”  
  
Killian shakes his head. “When did you leave Boston?”  
  
“Um, it was...December. It was freezing cold. It had snowed the night before, some kind of record-breaking thing that probably had to do with the water or whatever.”

“Record-breaking,” he repeats, a mix of disbelief and something Emma refuses to acknowledge in his voice. “December 20th? Did you leave on December 20th?”  
  
Emma clicks her teeth, trying to pinpoint dates and frustration over a moving service that blamed the snow for showing up three hours late. “Yeah, I think that’s right, actually. Where are you going with this?”  
  
He kisses her again. A little bruising and a little determined and as if he’s very certain of the next few words that are going to come out of his mouth. “I got to Boston on December 19th. I was supposed to get there the next day, but I couldn’t stay in Norfolk anymore and I just...I got in my car and drove and I was in Beacon Hill when I felt it. You.”  
  
Emma gapes at him. She’s doing that weird breathing thing again. “But, I--you said you met Milah three days later.”  
  
“I did. And I was very sure of a lot of things for a very long time, Emma. I really did love her. That--that hasn’t changed, but it was...I didn’t think I’d ever be able to feel what I felt in that moment again or even believe in much of anything after I lost her. Until you.”

She should respond without kissing him. She doesn't. He doesn’t seem to mind much. And they are very good at it.

“But that’s,” Emma starts, and part of her _soars_ when Killian makes a noise as soon as she pulls her mouth away from his. “Ok, ok, hold on. So, I have my moment when I’m sixteen. You have yours two years ago and we’ve just been--”  
  
“--Idiots? Yes, I think that’s blatantly obvious. Why didn’t you tell me?”  
  
“About the moment?” Killian hums, and maybe he can actually see the pattern he’s following on her back. Something magical, probably. “Because it happened a lifetime ago and I’d been through so much shit and the Neal thing blew up in my face and I--David said you didn’t believe in soulmates.” Emma blinks when the realization slams into the back of her head. “Oh. That’s why. It hadn’t happened for you yet.”  
  
“I don’t understand. What hadn’t happened?”

Emma swallows, nodding at the arm still wrapped around her middle. “I couldn’t feel anything,” she whispers. “There was--”  
  
“--No hand, huh?”  
  
“I’m so sorry.”  
  
“That’s not your fault, love,” Killian says, brushing a kiss over her hair. “That’s...well that’s the world and I--well, you’ve been here for both of those things, Swan. Even if neither one of us realized it.”

“What do you mean?”  
  
“You never did ask why I decided to come to New York.” He does something ridiculous with his eyebrows and it takes Emma half a second to realize he’s having fun. She’s having fun. It’s exciting and ridiculous and, well...fun. “And I wasn’t going to,” Killian continues. “But Locksley was adamant and it was a good opportunity and all the hype. I just...I didn’t really decide to come until I got in my car and started driving and I knew it was right.”  
  
Emma has no idea what sound she makes. A laugh. A cry. The pure sound of complete and utter joy. “You knew?”  
  
“It felt like I was supposed to. That this was where I needed to be.”

“But wait, why didn’t you say anything? Did you realize it was me when you got here? Or feel something? And what did David say to you?”  
  
“Several very pointed things in the last two minutes, actually. But mostly that I was an idiot and that it was obvious how much I was into you, which is very true, just for the record.”  
  
Emma bites her lip.

“Anyway,” Killian continues. “He said he knew about Milah, but had been thinking about it and wasn’t it interesting that you and I might have been in the same city at the same time before?”  
  
“And you figured it out just like that?”  
  
“I’m very perceptive. Plus, I’d, well...I’d been thinking things. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I felt it again, that pull and the want and we were sitting on my couch and it was as if I’d only just realized the sun was still rising every day. I was sure I was going insane, but I figured even if we weren’t soulmates, it was--I would have followed you anywhere, Swan.”  
  
“That’s stupid romantic.”  
  
“Yeah, that was the goal.”  
  
They really are exceptionally good at kissing each other. They linger in each other’s space for awhile, more than content to press lips anywhere they can reach and she’s not sure which one of them makes what noise when another set of footsteps join the fray.

“Go away,” Killian says, not bothering to move his mouth away from Emma’s. She laughs again.

She can’t really help herself.

David does not, in fact, go away. “Did I do something good?”

“Are you here to gloat, Detective?”  
  
“I mean, a little? Was I right?”  
  
“Oh man,” Emma groans. “Were you following some kind of lead here? Was this just an exaggerated hunch?”  
  
“Not at first,” David admits. “But I did follow the overwhelming evidence that you two were spending nearly all your free time together and I knew you were both faking this date to get me off your back.”  
  
Killian scoffs. “Were we faking this, Swan? I’m not sure that we were.”  
  
“Nah,” she says, grinning when David rolls his eyes. “Probably not. Hey, you want to go on a date or something? Like...tomorrow.”  
  
Emma is very proud of the flush that forms on Killian’s cheeks immediately. “Tomorrow?”  
  
“Yeah, or like...today. Dates end with kissing, right?”  
  
David mumbles a string of increasingly creative curses, Killian’s eyebrows doing something impossible and the butterflies in the pit of Emma’s stomach feel strong enough that they could very easily plan world domination.

“Yeah, they do,” Killian nods. “C’mon, love, let’s go critique alcohol options.”  
  
They don’t wait for David to say – or curse – anything else, Killian tugging Emma down the hall with smiles on their faces and her phone still on the floor. She assumes David picks it up, shouting something that sounds like “I knew you’d do that” at them.

* * *

He dances with her.

She’s never danced with anyone before.

Emma can’t stop smiling, spinning and twirling and she’s never thought the world _twirl_ before in her life.They dance and they drink and, at some point, someone asks Killian if he’s there with his soulmate.

His answering smile could probably power whatever machine this piece of garbage DJ is using.

Emma can’t believe Regina’s wedding has a DJ.

“Yeah,” he nods, the arm around her waist tightening slightly and it’s difficult to understand the words when they’re pressed against the top of her hair. “I am.”

Mary Margaret’s answering squeal can probably be heard on the moon.

She calls Ruby. In the middle of the reception.

Ruby’s answering scream is piercing.

“Can’t keep a secret to save her life,” Emma mumbles, but then the music shifts and they’re moving again and she can’t seem to catch her breath. “Hey, um,” she adds, glancing up and she’s fairly certain he already knows what she’s going to say. She says it anyway. That’s a nice feeling. “I love you.”

They keep moving when he kisses her, an impressive show of balance and romance and _really_ sticking it to the whole soulmate trope because Emma’s fairly certain she’d mean it without the labels or the names and--

“I love you,” he says, mumbled against her lips and the curve of her jaw and the bridge of her nose. Over and over. A repeat and return and some kind of joke about rhythm that’s appropriate with a really shitty DJ in the background.

It’s perfect.

* * *

And they don’t actually do much except sleep later, curled up in the middle of a very expensive hotel room bed because it’s still a castle and Killian mentions something about _liking the color of your dress, love_ and Emma closes her eyes with a smile on her face, certain, for the first time that she can hope for everything.

And get it. 

* * *

They go to Disney World two years later.

After they elope.

No one is surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fact that the last chapter of this fic posted on the same day the Jonas Brothers released a brand-new album may genuinely be my greatest accomplishment. It was not planned. At all. As always, thanks for clicking and reading and saying very nice things. It's very nice. 
> 
> I'll have more supernatural stuff later this month. Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	4. Chapter 4

He genuinely, one-hundred percent does not mean for it to happen the way that it does.

That, however, seems to be how they operate –– unexpected and even better, a string of wonderful and slightly magical, all ease and two years of ups and downs and how comfortable it is to fall asleep on the couch together.

They fall asleep on the couch all the time.

It’s a ridiculous habit.

It’s painfully domestic.

And, sometimes, just painful, but Emma likes to say that’s because Killian is old and she always flashes him that very specific smile when she does it. That makes it less painful.

So, really, he can’t be held accountable for what happens. Because Killian did, in fact, have a plan. He had an idea and expectations and a box that’s been burning a hole in his pocket for the last few weeks.

Metaphorically.

But then Emma swings open the door of the bar, hair sticking to her face and color to her cheeks and––“We got him,” she proclaims, slumping over the front of the counter with a huff that probably shouldn’t be as endearing as it is.

She lets her head fall forward, a soft thump that is also the single most wonderful thing Killian has ever seen, a joy that’s practically radiating out of her because she and David had been looking for this particular asshole for months, paperwork and long nights and part of the reason he hasn’t actually been able to put the plan in action.

And, really, he’s glad that justice has been served and Emma will probably have some department-mandated time off now and--

She tilts her head back up, staring at him from underneath her eyelashes. Her eyebrows pull low, all concern and confusion and Killian can’t entirely ignore the fluttering of nerves in the pit of his stomach.

That’s absurd. This is...well, it’s magical and soulmates and he’s fairly certain of the answer he’s going to get, but he’s also a human being and he wants. With every single fiber of his being. He’s surprised there’s not a constant stream of smoke coming from his left pant pocket.

“Babe,” she drawls, letting a finger drag through a ring of condensation he should probably clean up at some point. “This is the part where you congratulate me on being the best police officer in all five boroughs.”  
  
“All five of them?”  
  
“Wow, that is scathing.”

Killian lets out a breath, more nerves and Emma’s eyes narrow slightly. “No, no, no,” he mutters, ducking down to grab a pair of empty glasses he hopes are clean. Honestly, it is a miracle Robin hasn’t killed him yet.

Ruby has asked _what the hell is wrong with you_ no less than forty-two times in the last two weeks alone.

And he doesn’t quite _run_ around the side of the bar, but it’s definitely close enough that it draws a laugh out of Emma and, he supposes, that’s fair. They’re both a little out of breath by the time Killian moves into her space, an arm around her waist when he spins her on the stool he didn’t even realize she was sitting on.

Her legs part, just enough that he can crowd against her, hands on his chest and his fingers brushing strands of hair away from her forehead.

“I love you,” Killian says, barely getting the words out before he’s ducking his head and catching her mouth with his. He can hear Emma’s sharp inhale, the crack of her knuckles when she curls her fingers around the fabric of his shirt, and one of her hands flies into his hair.

There is absolutely, positively no way to know how often they’ve done this. It’s probably an obscene number at this point, drifting into the thousands, at least, but that’s also a good thing, _the best thing_ , and Killian genuinely cannot think when Emma’s leg wraps around his calf.

She surges up, trying to get even closer and that never fails to make his whole world shift slightly, as if she’s greedy for every bit of it, trying to claim something that’s been hers from the very first moment he walked into that coffee shop.

That makes him a little less nervous.

About everything.

God, Ruby is going to be obnoxious about this.

David too, probably.

Robin may just be thankful to have a, relatively, normal business partner again.

And, eventually, the need for oxygen proves to be more pressing than the need to keep making out in front of the relatively small Tuesday night crowd, Killian’s shoulders moving quickly while he tries to regain his bearings.

“So, that’s a no, huh?” Emma asks, laughter still clinging to her voice. She pulls back slightly, chewing on her lower lip and he briefly considers pulling her off the bar stool, dragging her into the back office and doing several unspeakably unprofessional things.

It would not be the first time.

“What gave me away?”  
  
“Well, I’ll admit that it’s been kind of back and forth, but Locksley said you’ve been weird for the last couple of weeks and--”  
  
“--Are you gossiping about me with Locksley, Swan?”  
  
“Ruby brought it up first and then Locksley confirmed it. So, really, you may actually be the most popular guy in all five boroughs.”  
  
“Including Staten Island?”  
  
“You don’t want to include Staten Island?”  
  
Killian shrugs, another quick kiss because, well...he can’t come up with a reason not to. “I can’t say I’ve got much of an opinion on Staten Island. I don’t know that I’ve ever been to Staten Island in my entire life.”

“What, really?”

“Why would I?”

“Yeah, that’s fair, I guess,” Emma admits. “Plus, the the toll over the Verrazano is just absurd now and you’d have to drive all the way through Brooklyn.”  
  
“God forbid.”

“The BQE and the entire borough of Brooklyn exists just to make me angry, I swear,” Emma says, and this is not the first time he’s heard this particular string of words in this particular order. It is also impossibly endearing.

Killian hums, lower lip jutting out. Emma nips at it. He was kind of hoping that would happen. And his hand has moved at some point, drifting over her side and the slightly rumpled shirt she’s got on, pulling until the fabric threatens to untuck from dress pants he’s, at least, seventy-six percent positive she wears just to drive him insane.

“Is it against the rules for New York’s finest to be critiquing the toll system?” Killian asks, clicking his tongue when Emma digs the heel of her shoe into his leg. “Swan, if you get my pants all dirty, I’m going to be really annoyed.”  
  
“That so?”  
  
“That’s not an answer.”  
  
“About the tolls?” He nods, fairly certain this entire conversation has gone completely off the rails, but it’s also kind of par for the course and if he doesn’t stop thinking in clichés, Killian may, actually, go insane. Emma blinks, lips twisting into something resembling a scowl. “Ok,” she says, tongue flicking out in a way that is far too distracting. Even with, like, six other people in the bar. “What is your deal?”

“What?”  
  
“Your deal,” she says slowly. “Locksley is legitimately worried. He thinks you’re overworked or something, which is--”  
  
“--I’m not the one catching dangerous criminals, love.”  
  
“Is that what it is?”  
  
“Is that what what is?”  
  
“Killian!”

He kisses her again. Something about habit or how much he’ll never be entirely used to the way she says his name, like it’s _hers_ in a way that it absolutely is. So long as they both shall live. Eventually. Maybe.

Hopefully.

“If I tell you I’m exceptionally proud of you are you, in fact, going to kick me?”  
  
Emma huffs, but her mouth is still distractingly close to his and the breath of air on his cheek is warm. “I don’t think I have enough dexterity in my legs, honestly.”  
  
“Good word.”  
  
“Yeah, well, flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Not flattery,” Killian promises, and that’s probably a step in the right direction. Promising. Declaring. The ring is in their apartment. “Honesty. I know how hard you’ve been working, Swan and the charges’ll stick. You’ve got more than enough evidence.”  
  
“Most of which you probably shouldn’t be aware of.”  
  
“Ah, semantics.”

She laughs again – giggles, almost – a softness to it that makes any lingering sense of tension disappear and he’s so, impossibly, completely in love with her Killian can’t believe he hasn’t gotten it sky-written yet. That’s a very soul-mate type thing to do.

That’s probably why he hasn’t done it.

Because this is _that_ , but it’s more. It’s...everything and easy and simple and a complete contradiction to both of those things and he also can’t believe they haven’t gone to Disney World yet.

“Is that what it is, though?” Emma presses, digging the tip of her finger into his chest. “Were you worried about me? And this Gold dick?”  
  
“Phrase that differently.”

She scoffs, head colliding with his collarbone. “You are a very frustrating man, you know that?”  
  
“And you are very much charmed by that, my love.”

He doesn’t mean to do that. It’s happened a few times, a quick change that isn’t really much of a change because it is the absolute and complete truth, but it also feels a little possessive and like a line Killian kind of wants to pole vault over.

Emma glances up again, smile tugging at the ends of her mouth. “Yeah, that’s true,” she whispers. “Seriously, you’ve got to tell me what you’re thinking. Nothing was ever going to happen to me.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
And he does. Killian knows. He watches her walk out the door every morning with the certainty that she will walk back through it, has gotten so used to falling asleep with hair in his face that he can’t imagine a scenario that is any different, but he’s also _all in_ and his mind cannot begin to process even the idea that any of this might not be.

It, simply, does not make sense.

Plus, he figures the world owes him.

But that seems like a dick move. Not Gold dick, but something different.

“Ok,” Emma says, stretching the word out until it sounds like several paragraphs. “So, then. What’s your deal?”  
  
“I have no deal.”  
  
“Babe. Seriously.”  
  
“No deal,” Killian says, not quite an exact repeat, but enough that he’s almost prepared for the skeptical look Emma’s face morphs into. “I just--”

“--You just?”

And, really, he has no idea what happens next. Honestly. It’s like falling into something, a rush in his ears and thud of his pulse, a burst of light in his vision that’s a bit like staring at the sun and there’s probably a metaphor there and, eventually, Killian will realize that it is, in fact, fairly magical. It’s oddly similar to the moment.

His moment.

Again. As if it’s trying to prove itself or remind him that having a plan is, sometimes, overrated and that’s really all there is to it.

The words spill out of him. There’s an alcohol joke to be made there. He doesn’t make it. He proposes instead.

“Marry me,” Killian breathes, and he’s dimly aware of Emma’s foot falling back onto the floor. She blinks. He blinks. It’s ridiculous. He doesn’t want to blink. He wants to see every single shift of her face, every expression, every twitch and the exact color of her eyes when she does, finally, process the words he didn’t actually mean to say.

He’s glad he did.

It’s more subtle than sky-writing, anyway.

“Fucking fuck,” Emma mumbles, eyes widening to a size that almost immediately makes them water when she realizes what she’s said. Her hand flies to her mouth, jaw going tense and another inhale that’s sharp enough to cut several metaphors.

And, honestly, laughing at his soulmate’s reaction to his less-than-planned proposal is probably against the rules of several different universes, but they’ve never really been very good at following the rules anyway and Killian throws his whole head back with the force of it.

“Oh my God, Swan,” he chuckles, chest shaking and it seems like the air gets sweeter around them. “Are you serious?”  
  
“Are you?”  
  
He stops laughing. Immediately. Enough that the silence that rings out makes it blatantly obvious that his neck cracks when he jerks back, eyes wide and Emma’s lip twisted between her teeth.

She’s very clearly not breathing.

“Swan,” Killian says, not quite a sigh, but the hope that he’ll eventually be able to make that tone of voice disappear entirely. As if she’s not quite sure or nervous about the hope he can practically see brimming in her gaze.

He reaches up, dragging his thumb over her lip until her teeth let go, and one of them probably gasps as soon as her hands finds his prosthetic.

“I planned this differently,” he admits, and he’s almost genuinely concerned for the state of her eyes. “I’ll have to apologize to Locksley. I--that’s what my deal is.”  
  
Emma’s jaw drops. Her tongue flashes again, quick enough that it’s barely there before she’s letting out a shaky exhale and the first tear that lands on her cheek brands itself on Killian’s entire soul.

He is drowning in metaphors.

“I love you,” Killian says. “I should have led with that.”

“Because of my thoughts on the Verrazano Narrows and the overall state of the MTA?”

“I mean, it’s part of it.” He chuckles, more endearments and something seems to settle in the pit of his stomach, a soft weight that doesn’t feel uncomfortable, more like it’s keeping him rooted to the spot or possibly just to her and Killian isn’t entirely opposed to that second one. So long as they both may live. “But it’s...well, it’s more than that, love. And it has been from the start. It’s…”

He has to finish his sentences.

That’s becoming more and more difficult.

“It’s...how much you care. About everything and everyone. You want to do something good, Swan and you do...just by opening your eyes in the morning.” That makes her roll her eyes, which he almost expected. He kisses her again, lets his forehead rest on hers so Emma can keep her fingers in his hair. And keeps talking. “It’s how much you hate scrambled eggs and your thoughts on the amount of cream cheese they put on bagels at Dunkin.”  
  
“It’s gross, that’s why. People take the phrase _cream cheese sandwich_ way too seriously.”

Killian kisses the bridge of her nose. And her right cheek. And her left cheek. And the curve of her jaw. He can’t stop, tracing a pattern that isn’t actually there, but one he feels as if he can see. That’s another metaphor.

“I know, Swan,” he continues, “and it’s all of that. It’s these pants--”  
  
“--The pants?”  
  
“Swan, if you don’t stop interrupting, I’m not going to be able to get you to swoon properly.”  
  
“I mean, I think you’re doing an alright job now, honestly.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
She nods. “Yeah. Are you into my pants?”  
  
“I’m super into your pants. And you. And how you cried at the end of Moana--”  
  
“--Ok, that didn’t happen.”  
  
“Emma.”

She scowls, a scrunch of her nose and pinch of her brows and they’re starting to draw a few curious glances. It might be because, at some point, Killian’s hand has moved underneath her shirt. “I might have cried at the end of Moana.”  
  
“I know you did, love. That’s my point. I...I love you. And, more than that I...God, I like you so much. Even when you leave the pillows on the floor.”  
  
“Is this the part that’s supposed to get me to swoon?”  
  
Killian hums, brushing his lips over that pinch until he can feel it disappear. “It’s you, Emma. It’s always been you. No matter what. With the magic or without, with societal rules or expectations. I’d...I’d always get pulled back to you. And I want to keep doing that. On some kind of indefinite loop. With pants that make me lose my mind a little bit.”

“I can’t believe you keep talking about my pants.”  
  
“I really like your pants. And what they do to your legs.”  
  
“Oh my God,” Emma breathes, but there’s more laughter and tears that are trending more towards emotional than depressing. Killian kisses them away. “I love you too,” she adds, “Way before the moment, which, incidentally is cheating that you’re using again.”

“Yeah, that was the point.”

Whatever sound she makes at that, etches its way onto every inch of him –– every dark corner of his brain, the parts that remember being alone and scared and absolutely terrified that everything he wanted was some kind of fabricated lie of the universe.

But then he’d come to New York and--

“I walked into that coffee shop and it was like seeing the sun for the first time,” he says. “Settled everything, made it easier to breathe. I…” Killian’s eyes flutter shut, a shift of emotion and Emma’s hand is cool when it lands on his cheek. He kisses the inside of her wrist. “I can breathe when I’m with you.”  
  
She kisses him that time. It’s nice. Perfect. Happily ever after.

“Yes.”

He blinks again. And blinks. And might, honestly, gasp.  
  
“Wait, what?”  
  
“Babe,” Emma grins, and she’s moved off the stool at some point, standing on tip toes with an arm slung around his shoulder. “That was the answer. Yes. Obviously.”

The world shifts, Killian is positive. It alters its course of rotation or something happens to gravity and he’s not totally sure how the Big Bang actually worked, but whatever appears to be happening in his bar may be oddly similar.

“Obviously,” Emma repeats, as if saying it again will help him believe. It might.

“The ring is at home.”

“That’s ok.”  
  
“I really want to marry you.”

She blushes. It’s the greatest thing that has ever happened to him. Bar none. She’s the greatest thing that has ever happened to him.

_Obviously._

“Ask one more time,” Emma mutters, and Killian can hear the want there, the same muted hope he’s been living for years. He nods, taking a step back and sinking onto his knee and, at least, four of the six people in the bar gasps.

She laces her fingers through his when he tries to lift her hand.

He takes a deep breath.

“Emma Swan, will you marry me?”  
  
Something, something, the goddamn sun. She beams, a shade of green he’s never seen before, but is probably going to covet the rest of his life, dropping down in front of him, which catches him by surprise, but then Emma’s lips are on his and Killian can’t think of any words.

At all.

“Yes,” she says again, pressing all three letters against his skin, repeated over and over, muttered in his ear and behind the bar, where she isn’t technically supposed to be, but he’s heard all about that evidence so he figures it’s a wash.

And the ring fits, sitting on her finger with those same fingers resting on his chest later that night, hair in his face and the quiet sound of Emma’s breathing lulling him to sleep.

* * *

He calls off the next day, some piss-poor excuse that Locksley absolutely does not believe, but Killian does not care and Emma keeps twisting her ring around her finger.

It may be driving him insane.

Which is saying something considering the fact that she’s resolutely refused to put pants on.  

There’s a laptop propped up on her thighs, fingers flying across the keyboard with a determined look on her face.

That lasts, approximately, four hours.

And several cups of coffee.

“This is ridiculous,” Emma sighs, slumping further into the corner of the couch. “There is just...do you know how expensive DJs are?”  
  
“Oh God, why would we get a DJ?”  
  
“That’s what I’m saying!” Killian hums, lifting his arm up so Emma can curl against his side. She slings her legs over his,her  head on his shoulder and fingers absentmindedly toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. “But it’s apparently less expensive than an actual band and--”  
  
“--Wedding bands are...something, aren’t they?”

Emma clicks her teeth, not quite frustration, but maybe just a sense of general overwhelmed and that’s not really the vibe he was hoping for. He hates that he even though the word vibe just now. He’s also running on, like, four hours of sleep, though.

He’s really glad she’s still not wearing pants.

“According to a TimeOut article I just read--do not laugh at that,” Emma adds quickly, when Killian opens his mouth, and he nips at her finger when she presses it to his lips. “Ok, seriously. This is just...there are a lot of things. And I was, you know, psyched to--”  
  
“--Get married?”  
  
“You say that like you aren’t.”  
  
Killian shakes his head, ducking down to mouth at the side of her neck. It earns him the exact noise he was hoping for. “I think I’ve proved my level of psyched, love. But I don’t want it to be some kind of something.”

“Explain that,” she says, rolling her shoulders so he’ll look up at her.

“You saw Locksley and Regina’s wedding. They had a fish course. It was absurd.”  
  
“It was nice. ‘Ish.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
She huffs. “I was so intimidated by that castle.”  
  
“I do not want to get married at a castle,” Killian says. “And you despise fish. You’re the world’s pickiest eater, really.”

“That’s rude.”  
  
“That is a fact. All I’m saying, Swan, is that this does not have to be some kind of cookie-cutter, soulmate thing. There doesn’t have to be a castle or fish or anything you don’t want. I’m here for you, love. That’s it.”

“That was stupid romantic.”  
  
“Yes, exactly.”

She scoffs, but the smile is obvious when she kisses him again, all heady and emotional and Killian’s hips cant up as soon as she scratches at the back of his head. They haven’t actually told anyone, yet. That will, eventually, prove important.

“What if,” Emma starts, and Killian’s not sure when her legs moved to either side of his, but he can’t bring himself to complain. Her breath hitches when his hand moves up her spine. “I really can’t have a conversation when you’re doing that.”  
  
“I’m not entirely opposed to not having this conversation.”  
  
“Ok, slightly rude again and a little confusing with the double negatives.”

“What if we what, Swan?”  
  
“You know you only have to wait twenty-four hours after getting a marriage license to get married in the city of New York?”

Killian’s hand freezes. And Emma’s smile widens, a glint in her eyes that’s far too knowing and---“When did you look that up?”  
  
“As soon as I saw how expensive it was to have DJs at a wedding. It doesn’t make any sense. Just play Spotify.”  
  
“You want to play Spotify at our wedding?”  
  
“Not if we elope.”

The laugh that bubbles out of him is not like any other noise he has ever made –– equal parts joy and something akin to relief and twenty-four hours seems like an almost reasonable amount of time to wait to be married.

He’d more into, like, twelve, but he figures he can last a day.

So long as Emma takes her pants off when they get back from the city clerk.

“Honestly?”

Emma scrunches her nose. “Was that you double checking, or…” She yelps when he stands up, legs wrapping around his middle, like he’d actually let her fall. It’s another metaphor. And they don’t walk back to the bedroom, so much as they stumble, pausing every few feet so Emma’s back can collide with a wall, roaming hands and searing mouths, a press of hips on hips and her fingers never leave his hair.

* * *

They both put pants on before they go to the city clerk, impatient in the back seat of an Uber and Killian nearly throws his credit card at the man behind the desk when he says it will cost thirty-five dollars to get married.

Emma’s whole body shakes when she laughs.

The artificial light reflects off her ring.

* * *

Killian Jones marries Emma Swan, soulmate, best friend, _the love of his goddamn life_ at three twenty-four on a Thursday.

They don’t tell their friends.

They have to ask a stranger to be a witness.

A man named Archie with glasses that are almost comically thick reads the vows off a slightly browned index card.

It is absolute and completely perfect.

And it really doesn’t last long –– partially because they just _decided_ to do this and partially because they don’t even have rings, just a suit that was hanging in the back of their closet and a dress that’s more cream than actual white, but made Killian’s eyes widen all the same when Emma walked into the living room that morning and--

“Do you, Killian Jones, take Emma Swan to be your lawful wedded wife?” Archie asks. “To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?”  
  
The muscles in his face ache, far too much use in far too little time, and Killian has to swallow before he can answer. “I do.”

Emma’s fingers tighten around his left hand.

“Do you, Emma Swan, take Killian Jones to be your lawful wedded husband? To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?”  
  
She blinks, tears and something bigger than that, lips parting into a smile that Killian is certain he’ll think about with startling regularity. Once every day for the rest of his life. At least.

“I do,” Emma says, and he barely hears the rest.

There’s something about _power_ and _the city of New York_ , but the buzzing in Killian’s ears is too loud and his heart is beating too fast and--well, Emma kisses him. Before Archie finishes.

Her fingers tug on the front of his suit, pulling him forward without much grace, an arm around her waist and tongue tracing across her lower lip and someone might whistle.

That seems to spur them on.

Killian tilts his head, lets his nose brush over her cheek and his fingers drift over the back of her dress. She steps on his shoe. Emma’s fingers move, dragging up the back of his neck and making his hair stand up, a mess of feeling and emotion and official.

So long as they both may live.

_Obviously_.

“I love you,” she whispers, the words hanging in the minimal amount of space between them and it’s difficult to see through the tears clouding his vision.

He feels as if his chest is too tight and flying apart at the seams, bursting with feeling and magic and how this kind of _settling_  is distinctly lacking any negative connotation. “I love you.”

Archie coughs, not quite pointed, but maybe a little uncomfortable and Emma ducks her head into Killian’s neck when she starts to laugh. “Congratulations Mr. and Mrs. Jones,” he says, the first time those particular words have been uttered in that particular order and Emma stills.

And for half a moment, the worry that slinks down Killian’s spine is annoying, but then Emma’s glancing up at him –– all green and love and––“Oh, that sounded good,” she breathes.

He can’t held accountable for what he does after that.

One of her shoes falls off.

Someone else whistles.

“So, what do we now, wife?”

Emma’s smile widens. “I’ve got an idea, actually.”

* * *

 Eventually Killian will ask Emma, _his wife_ , when she finds the time to do so much internet research. As it is, he’s far too busy being stunned that it worked and there is a website with other people’s cancelled Disney World vacations for sale.

They buy one.

Five days. At a resort that is, apparently, very fancy, something about a pool the internet is consistently impressed by and he’s fairly certain Emma hasn’t stopped smiling once in the last forty-eight hours.

That’s all he really cares about.

He’s a sap.

And he kisses the bend of her knuckles, fingers laced together and more light reflecting off her ring, as soon as they take off.

* * *

 Of all the things that he has ever seen in his entire life, watching the way Emma’s entire face changes as soon as she walks into Magic Kingdom may be Killian’s favorite.

He can actually see her inhale, the way her shoulders shift and her eyes widen. Her lips twitch slightly, like she can’t decide if she wants to smile. Her fingers flutter at her side, only one hand because the other one is still wrapped up in his, throat shifting when she swallows and lips pressing together, a tight line that doesn’t quite match up with the suddenly quick pace of her breathing.

And he knows it’s wrong to be glad as soon as the first tear lands on her cheek, but he also knows it’s not sadness, it’s hope and romance and, well, romance again.

It is, after all, technically their honeymoon.

“Oh, shut up,” Emma grumbles.

“I didn’t say anything, Swan.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, you didn’t really have to.” She turns, hands flying to his chest, and she’s going to do damage to her sandals if she keeps pressing up on her toes like that. “You look very pleased with yourself.”  
  
Killian shakes his head. “I’m happy, love.”

She doesn’t drop back to her heels. That’s nice. “Yeah, me too. I think that’s how it’s supposed to work here.”  
  
“Just with you, maybe.”  
  
“What a line.”  
  
He hums, ducking his head and this is not the place for it. There’s a crowd and people and someone in a red vest is trying to get them to move because there may very well be a parade starting soon, but Killian kisses Emma anyway, lets all the want and need and several other relationship buzzwords find their way into the movement.

“I think we’re going to get run over by a parade float,” Emma mumbles, drawing a laugh out of him and a possible agreement out of the clearly stressed out red vest. “Alright, what do you want to do first?”  
  
“How many different types of foods do you think are shaped like Mickey Mouse here?”  
  
“At least a dozen.”  
  
“You’re low-balling it.”  
  
“You think it’s more than a dozen?”  
  
“You should start with the pretzels,” red vest says, flashing them a grin despite her attempts to keep people from crossing the sidewalk. “And I really do need you to move.”  
  
Killian hums, fingers finding Emma’s again. “Let’s go find a pretzel, Swan.”

* * *

“We’re only at ten,” Killian says, two days later and he’s not sure either one of them have ever eaten this much food in their lives. That’s really all they’ve done. They eat and they drink and they make out in public places.

And, well, they take each other’s clothes off with an almost alarming amount of frequency, but he’s still using the honeymoon excuse and they do, at least, wait until they get back to their room for that.

They haven’t used the pool once.

It has a pirate ship next to it.

And a lot of kids.

Whose parents probably wouldn’t appreciate how often Killian likes to kiss his wife.

He keeps using that phrase.

Word, really.

Title?

It doesn’t matter. He uses it and thinks it and someone in one of the stores on Main Street gave them buttons that say _happily ever after_ on them. It’s gotten them more food. And champagne that one time.

Emma rolls her eyes, taking a particularly aggressive bite out of a pretzel shaped like Mickey Mouse’s head. “That’s ridiculous,” she says, reaching out to brush her fingers over the fake headstone in the line queue they’re waiting in. Haunted Mansion appears to be her favorite ride.

She hums the song at the end.

Killian doesn’t think she realizes she’s doing it.

“Ten Mickey Mouse shaped foods, love. And I really don’t think the ice cream cone counts because it’s just a cookie on top of ice cream.”

“You’re just getting particular now. Also you hated those cake pops.”  
  
“If I’m going to pay six dollars for something on a stick, it should at least be an entire cake.”

Emma scoffs, shuffling forward when the line does and shivering slightly when they move into the air conditioned building. She hands him a piece of pretzel over her shoulder, trying to surreptitiously eat what may actually be their fifteenth pretzel before they get on the ride and she laughs every time the lights flicker in the entry room too.

He is hopelessly in love with his own wife.

It’s nice.

It’s obviously what was going to happen.

“Welcome, foolish mortals to the Haunted Mansion,” Emma mutters under her breath, leaning back against his chest. There’s hair in his face again. “This chamber has no windows or doors.”

The lights flicker again, Emma’s body shaking against Killian’s and she jumps slightly. That might have more to do with his mouth against her neck than anything else.

And she keeps humming the song long after they get off the ride, another loop around Magic Kingdom that gets disrupted by the parade –– “Seriously, there are so many parades here.” “You are very anti-parade, babe.” “It ruins the walking pattern of the whole park, Swan.” “So we’ve heard.” –– before they have fast passes at Hollywood Studios and they are both absurdly competitive at Toy Story Mania.

“You looked up cheat codes last night,” Emma accuses, pushing her 3D glasses up the bridge of her nose after he’s won. Again.

“I did no such thing.”  
  
“Show me your internet history.”  
  
“No!”  
  
“You cheated. You’re a cheater.”  
  
“I just have better hand-eye coordination than you, that’s all.” He twists his eyebrows, half a smirk and the tip of his tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek and Emma groans. And kisses him. Her glasses slide down her nose again. “And they weren’t cheat codes,” Killian adds. “They were suggestions on where to aim the rings on that one game so you could get a shit ton of points, that’s all.”

“You are the worst.”  
  
He hums, holding an arm out when she clamors in front of him. "Still married me.”  
  
“You keep bringing that up.”

“Yup.”  
  
It makes her laugh, the sound of plastic being thrown in the bin echoing around them. “Alright, husband, where to now? Because if it’s not Tower of Terror, I think this marriage is destined for disaster.”

“Good alliteration.”  
  
“C’mon.”

He’s gotten very good at timing the photos on the drop, fingers brushing over Emma’s stomach at precisely the right time, making her laugh even louder and smile even bigger and she’s very quick to point out that _buying the pictures now is pointless, they’re all on the website_ , but he’s kind of stubborn and they’re _married_ , which isn’t an excuse, although it may be a reason and she buys a frame for it.

* * *

They drink around EPCOT on their last night there, not particularly good planning, but it is what it is and what it is is delightfully buzzed.

“This is professional curiosity, Swan,” Killian says, not sure when his words started slurring slightly, but it might have been somewhere around Morocco.

She nods against his shoulder, legs wobblier than normal underneath her. “So you mentioned when you were talking about the one guy’s pour technique in Canada.”  
  
“It wasn’t very good.”  
  
“Too much foam.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“Is that why we’re only doing liquor? No threat of pour issues?”  
  
“No,” Killian shakes his head, which leads to his lips dragging across her forehead and he didn’t realize he was that close to her. “That’s so we don’t die on the flight home tomorrow.”  
  
“Oh, don’t mention tomorrow.”  
  
“What’s the matter?”  
  
Emma shrugs, tilting her head up and there’s just enough sobriety in her gaze to be...sobering. “I love you,” she says, which isn’t the last thing he expects to hear, but they’re also a few steps away from a giant statue of a Viking, so it’s probably not the first thing. “And, I--God, this has been so good. This whole thing and I don’t…”  
  
“You don’t?”  
  
“No, that’s not what I mean. I guess--” She licks her lips, a shaky breath and she’d really liked that ride in Norway when they’d ridden it a couple days ago. Maybe they should get some school bread to eat. Soak up the alcohol. “I’m happy. And not really surprised because you make me happy, but...I’m just glad we did this. That it was ours.”  
  
She shrugs again, as if she’s not sure of the reception she’ll get to the words and so, really, the only rational thing to do is kiss her until her left knee buckles.  
  
It ends up being her right, but Killian will work with what he’s got.

And he’s got her.

Obviously.

“I love you so much.”  
  
“That’s really good news,” Emma mumbles, a quiver of something that still sounds like nerves and there’s more to this than what she’s saying. “We’ve got to tell people eventually, you know.”  
  
“I do. And I have an idea about that.”  
  
“Do you just?”  
  
He hums, smile stretching across his face and excitement twisting around the base of his spine. It’s pleasantly warm. Like magic or something. “I do, but first, we are going to try the margaritas inside the pyramid thing--”  
  
“--That is not what it’s called.”  
  
“Inside the pyramid thing, because the subReddit said they were better than the ones outside.”  
  
“You are obsessed with the subReddit.”  
  
“Yes, let’s drink margaritas.”  
  
They do –– and they don’t try the ones outside, far too aware of the states of their livers, but the ones they have are pretty damn good and make Emma grit her teeth in the most delightful way, and then they’re on the monorail and standing in front of Cinderella Castle and there’s a camera pointed their direction.  
  
“So,” the photographer says, “what did you guys want to do, exactly?”  
  
Killian stuffs the Sharpie back in his pocket, an arm around Emma’s waist and maybe the smile is also permanent now. She holds her hand out.

The photographer laughs.

“We’re telling our friends we got married,” Emma explains, more laughter and kisses and she actually gasps when he dips her.

* * *

Their phones buzz, in tandem, for fifteen minutes straight.

Ruby sends four different audio messages.

David sends a photo of Mary Margaret. She’s crying.

Locksley writes finally with several exclamation marks.

* * *

And the rest of the night goes on –– starlight and moonlight and fake light, from trees and off rides in the back corner of Fantasyland, neither one of them quite buzzed anymore as they meander past the Tangled area towards Peter Pan’s Flight.

Emma stops walking.

Killian nearly falls over.  
  
“Swan?” She chews on her lip, chest heaving enough that he’s worried her pin is going to fall off. “Love,” Killian continues, a cautious step forward and his left hand on her waist. “Are you alright? You want to sit down?”  
  
She shakes her head, the ends of her hair fluttering a sudden breeze and--

“I wouldn’t want you to look at my internet history either.”

He can feel his eyebrows fly up his forehead, that same feeling of dread and worry mixing together with whatever his pulse is doing and the edges of his vision have started to go a little spotty. Maybe he’s not entirely sober yet.

“I don’t--”  
  
“--I know, I know,” Emma cuts in sharply, and she can’t seem to decide what to do with her hands. “I just...well, I was thinking about it before you even proposed and I--”  
  
“--You’re going to bite through your lip, love.”  
  
Killian thumbs at it, trying to pull it away from her teeth, but Emma is also stubborn and so obviously nervous and part of him probably knows. Part of him appears to be having a moment. Over and over. Again and again. Falling into a life and a feeling, a sense of security and want and how easy all of those things are.

He supposes that’s how it should work.

And how it has, even before he knew.

He’s always kind of known.

“Whatever you’re thinking, Swan, whatever you were looking up, it’s not…”  
  
“--I want to adopt a kid.”

His eyebrows are going to stay locked at the top of his forehead for the rest of his life.

Killian swallows, eyelids fluttering shut despite his best efforts, because he kind of knew, and he wants and wants and wants. With her. Obviously. “Yeah, ok,” he breathes, and Emma actually gasps. It makes him laugh. “Were you not expecting that?”  
  
“I…”  
  
“Swan, c’mon, love.”  
  
“Are you serious?”  
  
“Are you?”  
  
“I feel like we’ve done this before.”

She lets out a breath, body sagging forward, which isn’t much since she’s also pretty close to him and that’s as nice as it’s ever been. “I love you,” Killian adds. “And I know you think it’s too soon and--”  
  
“--Stop reading my mind.”  
  
“I’m not, love. And it’s not. It’s--” He shrugs, a tilt of his head and a smile that’s as genuine as any he’s given her all week. “I love you,” he says again. “And we’ve both been...you changed everything, Swan. If we could do that for kid, together, then I am in. All in.”

Emma tilts her head up, probably not an invitation to kiss her, but they did just decide they were going to try and have a family a few feet away from very intricately decorated bathrooms, so. Killian kisses his wife.

Hard.

And the fireworks start.

Loud.

There’s music and color and more light, reflecting off the ring on the hand that’s resting against his chest, tears on Emma’s cheeks and, maybe, on his cheeks, and they didn’t even read all of their text messages.

“We’ll swap internet history when we get back to hotel, yeah?”

Emma clicks her tongue, but then she’s laughing and kissing him and--“Maybe not the first thing we do.”  
  
“Deal.”

* * *

He keeps reading the Disney World subReddit.

And Emma sends him links. To an adoption agency. And baby stores. And how to bring a toddler to Disney World without losing your mind.

And three years later they do just that.

Henry likes the pool at the Beach Club.

He smiles and splashes, making faces and squirming in Emma’s hold while Killian tries to take pictures, ignoring any preconceived worries about his phone and its proximity to water. And they ride rides –– not Tower of Terror yet, because they are, actually, responsible, but Henry is delighted by the music on Haunted Mansion and even more so by Pirates of the Caribbean and Killian’s rough estimate is that they buy sixteen cake pops.

Over the first four days.

They eat more food and meet characters, something cliché about seeing joy reflected on your kid’s face that changes absolutely everything all over again, and, on their last night there, they stand in front of Cinderella Castle with smiles on their faces and a camera pointed at them.

Mary Margaret’s answering text message includes what may be a record-setting number of w’s in her aw.

Henry likes the fireworks too.

That feels oddly cyclical. As does Emma next to Killian, the feel of her lips obvious even through his t-shirt and it probably isn’t easy for her to get her arm around his middle when there’s a kid there, but they might both be holding that kid together and he kisses her hair.

“You happy, Swan?”  
  
“Yeah, I am. You?”  
  
“Yeah.”

Henry and Emma both fall asleep on the bus, her head on Killian's shoulder and their son’s arms wrapped around his middle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, guys, I get requests for more fic and I just...my soul flies to a higher plane of existence and I don't know what to do with my hands and then I use those hands to write more fic. So, honestly, I have never learned how to accept a compliment. 
> 
> Also, while this story only just finished posting, I wrote it in February, so it was real nice to jump back in. Every single thing Killian did in these seven thousand words was one-hundred percent based on my husband. Who is also obsessed with the Disney subReddit. 
> 
> I'll still have more supernatural stuff later this month. Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


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